To the Undiscovered Country
by Elena Zovatto
Summary: AU, post 'The Gift'. Buffy is gone. Willow is determined to bring her back. What if Spike had discovered the Scoobies' plans - and he *knew* where the Slayer really was?
1. Prologue Death and the Maiden

_Notes: This is a sequel to my previous story, "Hot Chocolate, discussion and Death at 2:00 am" but can be read as a standalone. It is a BtVS/Sandman crossover, but the focus is with BtVS. A reader does not need to be familiar with the Sandman comic in order to understand what happens in the story._

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. If you recognize a character, s/he belongs to either DC/Vertigo Comics, Neil Gaiman, Joss Whedon, or UPN. Though in the case of the BtVS characters, I think the actors who bring them to life have a claim to them as well. I'm writing for fun, not profit, and if you don't believe me, I can send you my bank statements. Suing me would cost you more in legal fees than you would be able to recoup from my meagre assets, so I'd advise you not to bother. Now, on with the story..._   
  
  


The sun was just beginning to rise as the battered band gathered slowly around the body, unaware of the two watchers standing in plain sight. 

"This is too weird," Buffy said. 

The Slayer hugged herself, as her companion stepped over to stand by her side. She was small, the paleness of her skin accentuated by her shaggy black hair, dark eyes, and black clothing. She turned to Buffy, the sun glinting off the silver ankh around her neck. 

"Well, I did warn you that staying around to watch never does any good," Death said amiably, "but you always did have to go your own way." 

"Yeah - you'd think I would have learned by now, huh?" 

"I wouldn't knock that stubborn streak of yours. It kept you alive for a long time - a lot longer than most Slayers." 

"I guess - so what now? I mean, you always hear about the afterlife and tunnels of light and stuff, but I don't really know what to expect. I wondered though..." 

"Everybody wonders - and sooner or later, everybody gets to find out. All I can say is that it's never quite what you expect." 

"Meaning...?" 

"Meaning are you ready to see for yourself?" 

Buffy looked at her friends one last time, then frowned, seeing that there was someone missing. 

"Just a minute - where's Spike?" 

"Over there," Death gestured in his direction. The vampire was just struggling to his feet in the shadows, and as she saw his face, Death cocked her head, studying him. 

"I think I might not be done here just yet," she mused. 

"Huh? What do you mean? He's not dusty, and there's no one about to make with the stake that I can see..." 

"The sun's rising, though." 

"So? All he has to do is stay in the shadows there, and he'll be fi..." Buffy stopped in mid-speech as she realized what Death meant. "No," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "No, he wouldn't... would he?" 

"I don't know yet - but he's thinking about it." 

"Well make him STOP thinking about it!" 

"I can't do that, Buffy. We had this conversation before - free will, remember? I only pick them up once their choices are made, I don't make their choices for them." 

"Can't I do anything? Get Giles or someone? We've got to stop him!" 

"Do we?" 

"YES!" 

Death looked thoughtful. 

"Well, technically he is already dead - so I suppose you could talk to him. Maybe that would do some good." 

"The others...?" 

"Won't hear a thing," Death said, "The dead speak too quietly for the living to hear. Go on, Buffy, but hurry - we don't have much time." 

Spike had just managed to stand and was slowly moving to where the Scoobies were gathered, his will the only thing keeping him upright as agony from his broken leg shot through him with every step. He had barely gone five feet when he saw... and promptly collapsed. 

He couldn't quite see into the centre of where the Scoobies stood, couldn't see what his shattered heart knew he would find there - but he saw who stood in front of him. 

A small, dark-haired girl of kindly aspect who had stood next to him, a sad but knowing look upon her face, while Drusilla drank him into his unlife. He could dimly recall the touch of her hand upon his, her softly spoken words... 

_It's a high price to pay for the existence you've chosen... but the choice was yours. We'll meet again though, William -- eventually._

He had asked his Dam about the girl, but Dru had merely laughed... 

_"Oh, she's a deep one she is... deep as the grave and older than the earth and of all the Seven, she's the only one what never lets you down. 'Cause when you see her, you're already on your way a fathom deep with the worms, so you can't be let down any more, you see..."_

He had almost forgotten all about it - but if he hadn't realized who she was before, he knew now. Death - and the Slayer stood by her side... 

"Spike," Buffy said softly. 

"No... not you," he whispered, shaking his head. "It was supposed to be me..." 

"Spike, dammit, listen to me!" 

Her vehemence startled him into meeting her gaze. 

"That's better," she said, crossing her arms. "Look, we don't have much time, so I'm just telling you: DON'T. I'm still counting on you, because I know I can. You kept your promise, Spike, and I need you - Dawnie needs you - to go on keeping it. You can't do that if you're all dusty. So please, no suntanning, okay? No other deliberate dust-inducing activities either - got it?" 

The vampire nodded numbly, tears tracking down his bloodied cheeks. 

"Good," she said, her face softening. "Like I told Dawnie - this was the work I had to do." 

"It's time to go, Buffy," Death said gently. The Slayer nodded, and turned back to Spike. 

"Thanks - for everything. And I just want you to know -- you're not a monster," she smiled tenderly as he looked at her, his eyes wide, then leaned down and kissed him sweetly on the lips. "You're Spike." 

She stepped back a pace to where Death waited, holding out her hand. 

"I know you'll keep your promise." 

With that the Slayer took Death's hand, and the two of them disappeared from his view. But as Spike finally broke down, sobs wracking his body, he could hear a rush of air, like the beating of powerful wings... 


	2. Chapter 1 Conversations with the Dead

Spike's face was streaked with the dust of the vampires he had killed, and the axe resting against his shoulder had traces of more disturbing things along its blade. He limped slightly as he walked through the cemetery, his recently healed leg not quite back to full strength. 

After a night of slaying with the Wiccas, the Whelp and the Watcher, he wanted nothing more than his bed, a drink and a fag - not necessarily in that order - but there was one other thing he wanted to do tonight. 

He checked the sky. Morning was still a couple of hours away -- plenty of time to go visiting. 

It was only a short way from his crypt to the quiet place beneath the willow tree. When he got there, he sat between the two graves in his accustomed spot, setting the axe down in easy reach -- just in case. He turned to the older plot first. 

"Hello Mum -- it's me again. Got summat for you," he said, reaching into one of the large pockets of his duster. He pulled out a small nosegay of white clematis flowers he had found growing near the chaparral, and carefully laid them by the headstone. The Victorian gentleman he had once been had instantly recognized them, and knowing the language of flowers as did everyone of his class and time, immediately thought of Joyce. This was one time when that ponce William had come in handy... 

"I know you probably think I'm layin' it on a bit thick, but it's the way I feel 'bout you. You always saw the man, not just the monster... which is pretty damn impressive, considering how we first met," he chuckled softly, remembering how the Summers matriarch had nearly brained him with a fire axe at Parent-Teacher Night. 

"Good arm you had, I'll tell you... an' then there was the time I came back after Acathla, moonin' over Dru. I'll never forget how you did by me... makin' me a cuppa, when you knew I could've just made a snack out of you. You didn't even bat an eye... takes a hell of a woman to do that. An' then, icing on the cake, you started _mothering_ me -- tryin' to show me the way the wind was blowing with me and Dru. I'm betting that's why you started tellin' me about your breakup... you saw the writing on the wall when I didn't, didn't you? But you knew I wouldn't listen if you told me straight out, so you tried a gentler approach - a mother's approach - with _me_. Bloody hell, Joyce, you were a rare gem... just like your girls." His voice caught slightly, and he paused long enough to light a cigarette before continuing. 

"Honestly, luv, I've wondered if you had someone on the side whilst you were married," he grinned as he took a drag from his smoke. "Now don't get tetchy, it's just that it's the only explanation I've got for how you managed to produce two such smashing daughters, seein' as that pathetic git Hank's DNA couldn't have contributed anything worthwhile to the effort. I figure it's either that, or the inherent quality of your own genes was enough to overcome the wanker's own faulty breedin'. Knowin' you, I'd say it's the latter." 

He smoked quietly for a few minutes. 

"You know I'm lookin' out for Dawn. She's had a rough time of it - we all have - but she's one tough chit, just like her Mum and Big Sis. She's gonna be all right. I'll make sure of that. I promised Buffy before, but now I'm promising you. An' speaking of your eldest, Joyce, I'm off for a word with her now. I'll bring you up to date on Passions tomorrow. 'Night, Mum." 

He finished his cigarette, and after stubbing it out on the grass, put the remnants into his pocket to throw away later. This was the one place in Sunnydale where he refused to litter. He turned to the other marker, smiling sadly. 

"Hello cutie..." 

He paused, remembering the first time he had said those words to her. Only four years ago it was, and now... 

"I would've brought some flowers for you too, but what can I say? What I feel for your Mum's conveniently expressed with one bloody bloom - you're a much tougher proposition. But then, you always were." 

His vision started to blur, but he set his jaw and stubbornly blinked away the tears before they could fall. He had cried enough on the day she was put in the earth, taking his heart with her. 

"I'd need a sodding greenhouse to cover what I feel for you, Slayer -- blue violet, honeysuckle, myrtle an' green locust for starters, with white clover, coltsfoot and everlasting to round it out... and cedar. Almost forgot cedar. I might not be living, but I'm unliving and that's bleedin' close enough," he finished, muttering. 

He smiled crookedly, imagining her response to his list, and answered. 

"No, no roses. I used enough clichés when I was a pillock of a bloody awful poet named William, I'd prefer to avoid 'em now if you don't mind... YES, I wrote poetry when I was human - really, really bad poetry, but poetry nonetheless." 

Pausing briefly, he resumed the imaginary conversation. 

"No, that doesn't exactly fit in with what I told you about my past, does it? But then, that's probably because what I told you was a bundle of half-truths, cobbled together with the odd white lie to save face. You want the truth, luv? Here it is, short form: know how the Tweedy One used to be Ripper? Turn that about, an' you have the real story of my unlife. It's no wonder that I went to so much trouble to leave the old me behind, is it? A bookish, deferential milksop hardly works as a vampire." 

He gave a short, bitter laugh. 

"I told you once that the first time I felt truly alive was after I died. That was no lie, pet. Gives you some idea of how pathetic I was in my breathin' days... I lived my life strictly according to all the conventions of proper Victorian society, thinkin' that all I had to do to fit in was be the model of a gentleman," he said, sneering at the recollection. 

"You can guess what happened... I got swatted like a bug for my trouble. Maybe if I'd actually had some taste when I chose the social set I aspired to, things could have been different - _I_ could have been different. But no, I wanted to be a proper society bloke, I did -- the titled, moneyed set was the one I set my sights on. After all, I had enough cash and enough breedin' to qualify, right? What I couldn't see was that to that crew of arrogant inbred elitist twats, the only thing I qualified as was comic relief. It was a disaster. _I_ was a disaster. But I kept at it, just the same. Thought that if I stuck it out, in time they'd come to see me - the real me - an' realize I belonged. After all, I didn't much care what most of 'em thought - just what one of 'em thought," he finished, his voice softening. 

"Cecily was 'er name... one thing that's never changed about me as man or monster, Slayer, I've been love's bitch from the start. See, I made the mistake of writing a poem about her. That wouldn't have been bad, so long as I could've done it in private. Of course, I was stupid enough to write it whilst I was at a party with the whole bloody crew - and someone took it from me and read it aloud. I did mention how bad my poetry was generally, right? Well, this one was the ne plus ultra of my entire soddin' oeuvre... everyone in the place had a right good laugh at William, the Bloody Awful Poet's expense. That was bad, but I could take public humiliation. I'd been doin' it with that crowd for long enough, after all... but everybody's got a breakin' point. Mine came just after that..." 

He fidgeted, running his hands through his hair, working up the nerve to finish his story. After so many years, he shouldn't really care - he was a demon after all - but whatever remained of his human self still stung at the memory. 

"See, Cecily took me aside. She had a question for me, 'and I demand an honest answer', she said. She asked if my poems were about her. And stupid berk that I was, I told 'er yes. She was horrified. I tried to reason with her, 'they're just words', I said. What mattered were the feelings behind them, and I told her so - I told her I loved her. That made things worse, if you can believe it - she went from horrified to shocked and horrified. I told her I knew I was a bad poet, but I was a good man, and if she'd just try to see me..." 

He took an unnecessary breath, letting it out in a hiss of remembered pain. 

"Know what she said, Slayer? 'I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me.'" 

His hands clenched, longing to hit something to relieve the tension caused by reliving his feelings. Although it had happened so long ago, the pain of his rejection was fresh even now. 

"Yeah... déjà-vu much indeed, luv," he snarled through gritted teeth, then loosened his jaw to the point where he could speak normally again. 

"I left the party in tears... ducked into a stable nearby where I could be alone, blubbering like an idiot. An' that's when Dru found me. She spoke to me, an' the things she said... she _saw_ me, the way I'd always dreamed the others would. She made me an offer - an' is it any wonder I took it?" 

Hands shaking, he fished for another cigarette, he knew he had an extra pack somewhere... then he felt something solid in his other duster pocket bump against his leg. Wrapped up in his memories, he had almost forgotten about the thermos Dawn had given him before he left for home. She had insisted, even though he had just eaten. 'It's not blood', she had said, and when he asked what it was, she had just hugged him and answered 'something else I think you need'... 

Taking out the container, he opened it - and the aroma of hot chocolate wafted into the night air. 

*Bloody hell... an' I thought Dru was psychic.* 

His eyes grew damp again, and he smiled as he poured a generous portion into the mug that had served as an extra lid. He sniffed at the steaming liquid - Dawn had taken the trouble to make it the old fashioned way, with cocoa, sugar and hot milk. Though they had already melted, there were marshmallows in there too... as well as a healthy dose of the Watcher's good brandy. His smile became a grin. 

*Ah Nibblet, how you spoil me.* 

He took a long, slow sip, and savoured the taste. Joyce had definitely been right - there were plenty of ways to overcome emotional trauma, but chocolate in some form always helps. Another sip or two, and he'd pulled himself together enough to continue. 

"So there you have it, pet -- the true story of William the Bloody. An' now you know why I showed up at your place with my trusty shotgun the night I taught you about Slayer-Slaying... one little phrase, and you managed to rip my heart out of my chest an' dance on it. You made me feel as weak and pathetic as I felt the first time I'd heard those words, Slayer, and right then I wanted nothing but to kill you for it." 

His gaze grew distant, remembering the blinding rage that had brought him to her door. Oh, he had been ready - no, _burning_ - to kill her that night. He had wanted to bathe in her blood and laugh as he watched her eyes glass over in death. He cocked his head toward her marker, as if acknowledging a point. 

"Excellent question, luv... so why didn't I?" 

Even now, it was difficult for him to express in words the sea-change he had undergone that night. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he broke the silence of the night once more. 

"When I saw you sittin' there on the porch, all curled up around yourself, the look on your face... you looked like your world was just coming to an end. And because it was, you didn't much care what happened to you anymore..." 

Closing his eyes briefly, he remembered how she had seemed - _small_. Though accurate enough literally, small was a word that had never before applied figuratively to the force of nature that was Buffy Summers. 

"And I knew exactly how you felt, Slayer, because that was me after Cecily... an' that was me a hundred and twenty years later, when you threw her words back in my face. That night, I looked at you, and saw _me_... and when I did, all I could think was how miserable you were, an' why the bloody hell weren't any of your mates around for you when you needed 'em?" he finished softly. 

He cradled his mug in his hands, looking into the thick liquid contemplatively before taking another sip. 

"Love's a funny thing... see, I'd figured out how I really felt about you 'bout a fortnight before. I'd realized that I loved you, I just wouldn't - couldn't - accept it. It was your partin' shot in the alley what finally made me see the truth. Tore me to shreds at the time, but once I'd thought it through, it made sense. If I hadn't loved you, hearin' you say those words wouldn't have hurt so damned much... wouldn't have made me so bloody furious either. Obvious, innit? But I didn't see it until I was standin' in front of you, ready to splatter you across the side of the house." 

After a brief pause, he resumed his monologue with a derisive snort. 

"If it didn't sound so bleedin' poof-like, I'd say I had an epiphany... so instead of blowin' you away, I put the gun down an' asked if I could help. Once I'd done that, I knew there was no goin' back for me." 

Even as he finished speaking, he could envision exactly how she would have reacted to what he'd just said, and he gave an exasperated sigh in response. 

"Yes, even when Dru came back - but let's not open that can o' worms tonight, ducks. There's only so much a bloke can take at a time, you know? 'Sides, I know bloody well when I've cocked up, I don't need remindin' from you." 

*Not when I do such a fine job remindin' meself...* 

Unbidden, the image of the fatal leap replayed in his mind yet again, as it had done so many times during the twenty-two - no, twenty-three - days since. His flashbacks were partially fuelled by his lingering guilt, but equally by his desire to remember his Slayer's last moments. Her vitality had always been at the core of his attraction to her, and she had never been so beautifully, terribly, gloriously alive than in her final act... 

He had wanted to greet the sun that day. It would have been a fitting, even poetic end, him going up in flames when her own had been snuffed out - but she'd had other ideas. 

*Trust Buffy to get the last word, even dead...* 

Every day was still a struggle for him. For the most part, he went through the motions of his unlife half-heartedly, only coming out of his shell around Dawn, or whenever there was violence to be had. His behaviour had not gone unnoticed by the others, and many were the times he had caught sight, scent or sound of them about his crypt when they were trying to check up on him inconspicuously. 

Their unexpected solicitude had warmed his dead heart, but even so, his resolve to keep going had come dangerously close to faltering a couple of times. When it had, he summoned to mind every detail of his last meeting with the Slayer, from her impatient anger (she always looked delicious when she was brassed off) to the gentle touch of her lips (velvety warmth, like the petals of a just-picked flower still warm from the sun - was that what a soul felt like?). Most of all, he remembered her final gift to him: the knowledge that in the end, she had seen and accepted him as a man. 

She had exacted a promise from him - and what kind of man welshed on a promise made to the woman he loved? 

Bringing himself out of his reverie, he freshened his drink and apologized. 

"Sorry, luv - with all the broodin' I've been doing lately, you'd swear I was turnin' into the bloody Great Poofter himself... oh, all right, just put the lip back, an' I'll shut my gob about him and get back to business. After all, wouldn't be doin' my job if I didn't give you the latest on the Nibblet, would I?" 

He sipped his chocolate, mentally reviewing the news before he spoke again. 

"She just got her stitches out last week - no trouble, and practically no scarring - so she's all healed up now physically. Mentally, she needs time, like the rest of us. But honestly, I think she's dealing better than anyone else at this point." 

A fond chuckle escaped from him as he remembered something that he was sure would have given the Slayer a rare smile. 

"You know, one time when Dawn was hangin' about with me after your Mum passed, the way she was actin' reminded me so much of you, I called 'er Bitty Buffy. She is that, pet - showin' the Summers mettle through and through. It'll take a while, but I know she's gonna be all right, just like I told Joyce. I think part of the reason she's doin' so well is on account of what you told her before... well, before. She's really taken it to heart, an' it's really helped her - helped all of us." 

He could feel the lump forming in his throat, and took a gulp of his drink to force it down. 

"Anyway... she's just finished her second week of summer school, an' so far so good. Yeah, summer school - between the time she missed when your Mum was sickly and all, and the time she skipped when she was actin' out with that bollocks about not bein' real, she had to make up some work. Whilst I was laid up with my leg, we did some review together, an' she says it's been payin' off. Mind, she's a bright one, and she's really buckling to this time 'round. All she needs to do is keep it up, an' she'll be right with her mates in the next grade come autumn." 

He really didn't know how to approach the next bit of news, seeing as his bad influence may have started the problem, but he took a deep breath and fired away. 

"Um... I don't know how much you know about Dawn's kleptomaniac spree, but it's over. She's promised to stop shoplifting, and she's even returned most of the stuff she nicked. She told me it all started when she took a pair of Demon-girl's earrings an' it just went from there - didn't even know why she was doin' it most of the time. She knows she messed up, an' that she's bloody lucky she never got caught. Last thing she wants is to be shipped off to your wanker of a father, or worse, foster care - the silly bint never even realized that could've happened. Now that she knows, I doubt she'll be doin' that sort of thing again any time soon." 

Pausing, he downed the rest of his cocoa, and gave a disgusted snort - then dove sideways, tucked into a roll and came smoothly to his feet with his axe at the ready, facing three vampires. 

"Pathetic," he sneered, neatly decapitating the nearest one, then waded into the two remaining. Between the inexperience of his opponents and Spike's anger at being disturbed, the fight - such as it was - was over in short order. 

"Bloody embarrassment to the species," Spike grumbled in annoyance, brushing off his duster, "soddin' cretins were too stupid to attack from downwind even..." 

"Don't be embarrassed - they didn't know any better when they were alive either." 

Spike knew that voice, and spun to face the speaker. She was sitting between the graves, directly opposite his original position, hands clasped over one bent knee. 

"It's a little unfair to say they were stupid though," she said. "Ignorant, maybe. None of them knew anything about hunting when they were human, and as vampires, they were barely more than fledglings, poor things." 

Despite his surprise at - and serious misgivings about - her sudden presence, he maintained his exterior cool. He _was_ the Big Bad, after all... 

Sauntering back to where he had been sitting earlier, he sank down on the grass with lazy grace to face Death. 

"Suppose that's true enough," he drawled, resting his axe across his thighs, "though I never realized you cared enough about a few fledges kickin' it to put in a personal appearance." 

"It's not a question of caring," she said, her dark eyes showing amusement at the vampire's affected nonchalance. "It's my job. People - or beings, if you like - die, I pick them up and bring them where they have to go. I always make a personal appearance." 

"Really?" Spike said sharply. "Seems a bit strange then, that I never saw you once when I was livin' it up as a quarter of the Scourge of Europe - exceptin' the night Dru drained me, that is - an' now suddenly I've been so blessed twice in less than a month. Care to explain?" 

"Sure," Death said, smiling as Spike blinked in surprise. "Usually only the one that I've come for can see me, but there can be exceptions. When Buffy died," she paused, noting his wince, "you wouldn't have seen me - or her, for that matter - if it hadn't been for the fact that she asked to talk to you before we left. After all, she wasn't about to just stand by while you killed yourself." 

"Right," the vampire said grudgingly, his voice harsh, "that explains last time. So what brings you here now? Come to gawk at the freak show, have you?" 

Death looked at him earnestly. 

"In my experience, there's no such thing as a freak show - so the answer to your question is no. If you really want to know, you're what brought me here tonight," she said, gesturing toward the spot where the three hapless fledglings had once stood, "but the reason I stayed is right here." 

With that, she reached behind her, and produced the mug and still-open thermos. Spike gaped at her. 

"You dropped one and knocked over the other when you did your stop-drop-and-roll," she said calmly, emptying the thermos into the mug. "I managed to rescue them. Good hot chocolate should never go to waste, in my opinion." 

Death proffered the mug to the vampire. Wordlessly, he took it from her, and gulped at the drink. 

"Thanks," he said hoarsely. 

"You're welcome," she replied, as she rose to her feet. "Until next time then, William." 

"Wait!" Spike called out, grabbing at her wrist, "Please..." 

Death looked at him expectantly, and Spike released his grip as he struggled with what he wanted to say. He had never voiced his secret fear to anyone. When awake, he was able to rationalize it, keep it at bay - but it tortured him in his sleep. Only Death could answer the question he needed to ask to relieve that fear, if she would... 

"I know there's a Hell, so it stands to reason there's a Heaven," he began haltingly. "An' it doesn't take a bloody genius to figure out where she belongs... where she ought to be. But in the end, Buffy... Buffy killed herself. An' accordin' to most churches' laws, suicides are... I have to know if..." unable to finish, Spike looked to Death, his eyes pleading for reassurance. 

"Buffy sacrificed herself to save her sister, and the world with her," Death said with a warm smile. "It's not the same thing at all - it's like the difference between scorning a gift and giving one. In the end, Buffy gave. There's no need for you to worry." 

Shoulders shaking with relief, Spike let out a gasping breath. 

"Thank God... I was afraid she... I kept thinkin' that maybe..." 

"I know Dante was always a favourite of yours, but you can get the Seventh Circle out of your head. She isn't there - she's all right." 

"Is she?" he demanded, his voice desperate. "I know it sounds like a bloody stupid question given what you just told me - no, I know it bloody well _is_ a stupid question - but it got so bad before she died... I know I'll never see her again. I know you can't give me any details about where she is, what it's like... but please, tell me this: is she happy?" 

At Death's nodded reply, the vampire was overcome. After weeks of being tormented with the dread that even after her death, his Slayer might still be suffering, the relief was indescribable. 

"Thank you," he whispered. 

"You're welcome," she said, then much to his surprise, leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. 

"That's from Joyce. Take care, William." 

Then as suddenly as she had appeared, Death was gone. 

Setting his axe aside, Spike slowly stood. Looking into his mug, he saw there was still some chocolate left. He took one last sip, then with uncharacteristic reverence, poured the remainder onto the earth which covered the Slayer. 

"Sleep well, love." 

Retrieving the thermos and his weapon, he limped back to his crypt to rest - and for the first time since Buffy's death, his sleep was undisturbed by nightmares.   
  
  
  


Meanings of flowers: 

white clematis (also called virgin's bower) -- filial love   
blue violet -- love   
honeysuckle -- devoted love   
myrtle -- love in absence   
green locust -- affection beyond the grave   
white clover -- I promise   
coltsfoot -- justice shall be done you   
everlasting -- always remembered   
cedar -- I live for thee 

Note: Dante Alighieri's Divina Commedia, written between 1306 and 1321, is an epic poem of redemption, telling the story of the author's journey through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. In Canto XIII, the Seventh Circle of Hell is described as where those who have done violence to themselves are punished. 


	3. Chapter 2 Denial and Acceptance

_Folly, rashness and blind prejudice played primary roles in the advancement of the plot in Romeo and Juliet. Discuss, citing specific examples from the text._

Dawn rolled her eyes at her English assignment. It wouldn't be hard to do, it would just take some time to track down really good examples. The one nice thing about 'discuss' questions, as Spike had pointed out, was that no one could really say you were wrong. Questions like this one were all about opinions. So as long as you had one, and some examples in the text to support it, you were home free. 

*If only Math could be so easy...* 

Unfortunately, it wasn't - not for her, anyway - and although her undead self-appointed tutor was a whiz with geometry and trigonometry, that was about the extent of his mathematical skill ('I read literature at uni, Sweet Bit, not that rot'). Good thing Willow was a brain at everything - but usually Math was the only thing school-related that Dawn asked her about. If she had problems with any of her other assignments, she just asked the vampire. 

Spike knew a lot about History - even the stuff he hadn't personally been around for - and with over a century travelling the world, he was a good Geography resource too, not to mention languages. Her French mark had never been better. 

Dawn never needed any help with Biology though - funny that a former glow-y green energy field should have the easiest time with the science of living things, when she had only been alive herself for under a year. She didn't even get grossed out by the dissections. Then again, during the time she _had_ been alive, she had seen more demon innards and other supernatural goo than you could shake a stick at, so grossing her out took some work... 

After looking through her other homework, she decided to start with the essay. Flipping through her Shakespeare text, she started scribbling a list of likely citations. Thus occupied, she only noticed Willow's entry into the dining room when she heard the thump of the heavy toolbox being set down opposite her on the table. Dawn knew what that meant, and cringed. Bad enough that her sister was gone, but to have that... _thing_... that looked like her around was just too much. It wasn't as if there was a better choice though... 

"That time again?" she asked, her voice flat. 

"Yeah," Willow said gently. "I need to upload a whole bunch of files, slaying stuff and Social Services stuff mostly, plus I might as well make sure all the wiring and internal mechanisms are good to go while I've got her opened up. Gotta make sure she stays in slaying shape." 

"It," Dawn said shortly. "It's not a she or a her, it's an it." 

Willow couldn't help but flinch at the disgust in the teen's voice, even though she knew the sentiment wasn't directed at her. It should have been though, the witch thought with a pang. 

*Some 'big gun'...* 

She had screwed up, misjudged how drained she would be after restoring Tara, and as a result was unable to do anything but watch in horror as her best friend leapt to her death. Almost two months after that night, the knife-edge of her guilt was still as sharp as ever. 

*If I could have done just one little levitation spell...* 

She wrenched herself away from that line of thought. There was no use in dwelling on her past mistakes - the thing to do was work on how to fix them. Buffy had taught her that. She didn't know exactly how she would do it - yet - but she was going to fix this... 

"I know, Dawn - it's just a turn of phrase," the witch said finally, "but you know we have to be careful about..." 

"Anyone finding out that Buffy's gone," the last Summers interrupted bleakly. "I know. It just sucks, that's all. And I know it's not like there's anything I can do about it except deal, so I'm dealing. It's just..." 

Dawn's eyes filled with tears, and Willow moved around the table so she could hug the younger girl. 

"I know, Dawnie," she whispered, "I know." 

After a moment, Dawn broke from the hug with a sniffle, and wiped her eyes. 

"Thanks," she said, getting herself back under control. "It's just that Stepford Buffy was creepy enough before and now I have to have it as a guardian, or have Social Services crate me over to Dad and the Pop-Tart..." 

"Dawn!" 

"... and that is _so_ not going to happen," the teen finished, her voice determined. Then she looked at Willow, responding to the witch's exclamation. "What? How else would you describe her? Shallow, fruity, flaky and full of artificial ingredients - it fits, don't you think?" 

Willow tried to look stern, and failed miserably. She had met the woman once, after all. 

*Okay... totally at a loss for parent-y words of wisdom about not judging people, even if they are your Dad's mid-life crisis girlfriend and even if they do meet every bimbo stereotype ever known - I need Tara to give me pointers.* 

Since the two witches had moved into the Summers house (partially to better maintain the illusion that Buffy was still alive, and partially to offer Dawn some much-needed stability), Tara had assumed the role of Dawn's primary caregiver with an ease that was all the more remarkable for her own troubled family history. 

"Well... maybe," the witch allowed, just managing a mildly reproving look which then segued to affectionate, "but there's a lot more than a robot keeping you here in Sunnydale, Dawn. The Scooby gang wouldn't be the Scooby gang without a Summers, so as a Summers, you're a required element. We're not letting you go." 

Dawn smiled sadly, then her expression changed, becoming calculating. 

"I'm an official Scooby now?" she asked. 

"Complete with official Scooby gang hat, jacket, pin, and endorsement contracts - if we had any of those things for keeping the badness quotient down on the streets of Sunnydale, which we don't - but Anya was actually talking about getting sponsorships from local businesses to help cover the cost of slaying..." 

"So," the teen said slyly, "does this mean I get to patrol with you guys?" 

*Okay - at least I saw this one coming. Maybe I'm finally starting to get the hang of this...* Willow thought hopefully, and smiled. 

"Nice try," she said, with a playful push to Dawn's shoulder. "For one thing, we don't know for sure if there's anyone or anything still out there looking for you. Until we're sure that there isn't, it's better that you stay out of it. Plus, slaying and high school aren't really mix-y things - trust me on this. Not to mention Spike would probably have kittens just at the idea." 

The answer was no less than Dawn had expected, but even so, in her disappointment, she had to bite back a sarcastic reply about Spike already having kittens. Given how attached the witches were to Miss Kitty, the less they knew about the vampire's poker games the better... 

"I never get to do anything," she groused. 

"You help Anya at the Magic Box." 

"To pay for the stuff I stole." 

"You help with the research-y stuff." 

"I am a mighty reader, fear me," Dawn intoned with practised sarcasm and an eye-roll that would have done her sister proud. 

"You take self-defense lessons from Spike." 

Dawn had no answer to that. Since she and the vampire had sufficiently recovered from the injuries they had both sustained on the night Buffy died, Spike had operated on a schedule. 

On weekdays, he would be waiting for her when she got home from school, asking her about her day as she came in. Then she would get started on her homework, and if she needed any help, Spike was there to be asked. If no homework help was necessary, the vampire would just hang around, watching television and reading the paper until dinnertime drew near. After moving into the kitchen and getting underfoot with his attempts to make himself useful to the night's cook, Spike would take his dinner with them - filching whatever morsels he could to accompany his mugs of blood. Once Dawn's homework was done, if it wasn't too late, the vampire would take her down to the Magic Box, and they would go to work in Buffy's old training room. 

Each time they stepped inside the place where her sister had spent so many hours, they would both have to stop for a moment as the pain of the loss came flooding back - and once they had recovered, Spike would begin his teaching. One hundred and twenty years of brawling had given him a wealth of fighting experience, and he meant to pass every one of his hard-earned lessons on to his charge. They would usually train for about an hour, at the end of which she would have some bruises, and he would have a nasty lingering headache. 

"Not doin' you any favours if I go easy on you, Nibblet," he had said once when she complained. "Got to be prepared for the real thing in this town, so this has to be as real as I can make it. I mean to protect you best as I can, an' part of that is makin' sure you know how to protect yourself." 

Once they had finished, they would usually emerge to find the remaining Scoobies gathering for either research or patrol. Depending on the situation, Dawn would either be allowed to stay for a time to help look for information, or be brought home by either Tara or Anya, who would then keep her company for the night. Though she was always in bed hours before the night's slaying was done, she slept lightly, fitfully, always waking at anything which could be the sound of the door, trapped between relief that someone had come home and the fear that someone else hadn't. Recognizing her anxiety, Spike had made a habit of looking in on her after patrol and thus reassured, she would sleep peacefully until morning. 

On weekends, Dawn would simply stay up with her minder until the others returned from their slaying. Depending on the kind of night it had been, they might stay up and discuss the work they had done, watch the late movie, or simply head off to bed. 

"Where is Spike anyway?" Dawn asked at last, coming back to herself. "I don't hear the TV anymore - did he go out for a smoke?" 

"Yeah - as soon as I said I was going to be doing some maintenance on the 'bot." 

The vampire's reaction was hardly unexpected. When Willow had come up with the idea of restoring the Buffybot to help convince the local demon population that the Slayer was still alive, Spike had been aghast. He had been all for completely destroying the doppelganger that he had commissioned in Buffy's image, considering the thing to be an insult to her memory. He would have gone ahead and done it too, had it not been for the witch pointing out that without Buffy - or a reasonable facsimile - as her guardian, Social Services would almost certainly make Dawn go to live with her father. 

Given the choice of two evils, the Big Bad chose the lesser. 

Ever since Willow had made the robot operational again, Spike had avoided being around it as much as possible - no easy task, as 'making Spike happy' was a fundamental part of its programming, and one which Willow had been unable to remove. As soon as the android was activated, it would seek him out and in spite - or because - of its best efforts, make him miserable. Of necessity, he patrolled with it from time to time to maintain the charade that there was still an active Slayer in Sunnydale, but the aftermath was never pretty. 

Usually, it involved Spike going on an extended bender in an attempt to do the impossible and drink himself to death. 

Nodding absently, Dawn gathered her books to one side of the table and stood up. 

"I think I'll join him for a bit - meaning the going outside part, not the smoking." 

Dawn made her way to the kitchen and quietly opened the door which gave onto the back porch. As expected, she found the vampire perched on the steps, cigarette in hand. She saw him cock his head as he sensed her presence behind him. 

"Oi, Nibblet - you tryin' to sneak up on me?" 

"Yeah, right - like I don't know I'm upwind of you. Plus you could probably hear my heartbeat or something." 

Spike turned to her with a small smile, pleased that she remembered her other lessons. But then, as he had observed, she was a bright one... 

"Right you are, luv. D' you need some help with your schoolwork?" 

"No. I just wanted some air, but if you're gonna be polluting it anyway, I guess I'll have to go somewhere else." 

"Cheeky bint," the vampire muttered with a half-hearted smirk, then put out his cigarette. 

"There," he said, "that good enough for you, Sweet Bit?" 

"I guess it'll have to be, at least until I can get you to drop the habit." 

"'Til the fifth of never then." he said with a snort. 

"Huh?" 

"Not for a long, long time, sweeting. C' mere - sit with me," he said, patting the step beside him. 

Dawn moved, and sank down next to the vampire. Neither said anything for a few minutes, each simply taking comfort from the other's presence. At last, Dawn broke the silence. 

"Spike?" 

"Yeah?" 

"What does it feel like when you die?" 

*Oh, bloody hell...* 

Spike regarded the girl intently, searching her eyes for any sign of guilt. He knew that he would never be entirely successful in driving it from her, but that wasn't to say he was going to stop trying. While Dawn's eyes were clear, unclouded by self-blame (this time), there was something else present in them. Curiosity, shadowed by a hint of dread - he would have to approach this carefully, find out exactly what she was afraid of, though he suspected what it might be... 

"Guess that depends on how you die, pet," he said finally. "I can only speak to me own experience." 

"Well, you bled to death, right? I mean, you're a vampire, you must have." 

At least now he knew for certain what she was about - and it was exactly as he had suspected. He was only surprised that she hadn't asked him before. 

"And you want to know what it was like - 'cause you want to know how it was for her," he said quietly. 

As he had said on that fateful night, it was all about the blood - and Buffy had sacrificed hers in Dawn's stead to close the portal. The Slayer had been dead before she hit the ground, her body drained of every last corpuscle. In a way, that was a comfort to him, knowing she hadn't had to feel the pain of the injuries her body had suffered in the fall. And he knew things about death and dying, things that might give the girl sitting beside him some comfort of her own... 

Spike extended his arm to her, a silent invitation. In answer, she slid next to him, wrapping her own arms about his waist as he held her. He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts, and when he opened them, he turned his head to meet Dawn's earnest gaze. 

"When I was dyin', the only thing about it that hurt was Dru's bite, an' that only lasted a second," he began. "After that... it was almost peaceful, really." He chose to spare her still-relatively-innocent ears about the _other_ sensations that had accompanied his Dam's bite and feeding - vampiric sexuality was the last thing he wanted to discuss with Dawn. Wasn't really relevant to this conversation, anyway... 

"As she drained me, I just came over lethargic like - the more she drank, the more tired I got. I was cold too, but after a while, I was too shagged out to notice the cold any more - an' that's when I saw 'er." 

"Saw who?" 

"Death." 

"You're not, like, being figurative are you? Or trying to be all melodramatic like those Wilco Collins books you told me about?" 

Spike laughed softly. 

"It's Wilkie Collins, pet - and no, I'm not." 

"For real? Death is a person?" Dawn asked, her eyes wide. 

"Don't know as I'd call 'er a person," he mused, "but she's definitely a someone, not a something." 

"You keep saying 'she' and 'her' - Death is a girl?" 

"That she is, luv - and a beautiful one at that." 

"What does she look like?" 

"Well, she's a little slip of a thing... she's got longish black hair, pale skin, an' dark eyes. But those eyes... they're not flat or dead-lookin' like you might expect. They've got a sparkle in 'em, like she's got secrets, and she's just lookin' for a pal to share 'em with. An' when you look into them, you see..." he paused as he tried to come up with the right words. 

"What Spike? What do you see?" Dawn asked softly. 

"Wisdom, first of all," he said, "The chit's older than dirt, so you expect that, really - but there's somethin' else in 'em too. Understanding... compassion... an' when she looks at you, it's more like she looks _in_ you, sees everything you are, everything you ever wanted to be. And somehow, she just _gets_ it - she understands you, accepts you for yourself - an' doesn't judge. I'd been judged an' found wantin' practically every day o' me life, so I can't tell you how bloody wonderful it felt when she looked at me like that. Then she spoke to me." 

"What did she say?" 

"She was... sad. Like she didn't think I was makin' a good decision, but she understood why I was makin' it... and she said that we'd meet again one day." 

"Then what happened?" 

"She took my hand... an' that's the last thing I remember, up 'til the time I came to in a wooden box minus my heartbeat." 

"So... you don't remember what it was like to actually be dead?" He shot her a look, and she scowled at him. "You know what I mean." 

"Yeah, luv, I know what you mean," he sighed, "and no, I don't." 

Dawn was quiet, huddled against his side, then she spoke again in a teary whisper. 

"Sometimes... sometimes, I wonder if she's with Mom, and if they remember me at all, wherever they are." 

Spike's arm tightened around her shoulders. 

"They do, Nibblet - they must." 

"How can you be so sure?" she asked, her grief warring with her surprise over the conviction of his words. 

"There's only one place where your Mum an' Big Sis are, ducks. An' what's the bloody point of Heaven if you don't have the memories of the times you had with the people you love? Seems to me without that, all you're left with is flittin' about like ponces with wings an' bad fashion sense." 

Dawn made a sound halfway between a sob and a belly-laugh, and hugged the vampire tight. 

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Spike." 

"Fail French, most likely - ow!" 

He sent a mock glare her way as he massaged the place over his ribs where she had hit him. 

"Why is it that every Summers lady I meet has some primal urge to pummel me?" he complained. 

"Must be your charm... Spike?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Since Willow's gonna be working on... could you take me to the Magic Box? I can finish my homework there." 

"Well, I _could_..." 

"But 'could' implies ability, whereas 'would' implies intent," Dawn said, exasperated, "I know, already - so _would_ you take me to the Magic Box?" 

"Why certainly, my little hors d' oeuvre - let's just let Red know what we're up to, and make sure we're well out of the way before she fires up the bloody thing..." 

The two of them couldn't have known that Willow had been waiting for them to leave. Just to be safe, she waited for a few minutes after the DeSoto had driven out of sight before she picked up the phone and dialled Xander's number. While she waited for an answer, Tara gathered the components for the privacy spell they would be needing. Finally, someone on the other end of the line picked up the phone. 

"Hi Anya? Sorry to interrupt whatever it is I might be interrupting - but it's time for that brainstorming session we've been talking about. How soon can you two get here?" 


	4. Chapter 3 Moving on

He had taken care of everything else - there was really one stop left to make. 

It was early morning in Sunnydale, and Rupert Giles locked up the Magic Box for the last time, pausing at the door to be sure the note he had left was easily visible. Yes - Anya would be sure to notice it immediately, seeing as it was placed on the cash register. Satisfied, he turned away from the shop, and made his way to his car. The sun shone brightly in the blue sky, with only the odd wispy cirrus cloud to pick up the last hints of pink from the recent sunrise. It looked to be a beautiful day. 

His lips pressed together, his expression pained. Suddenly feeling every one of his years, he got in the car and closed the door. When he had first come to California in search of the Slayer who was to be his charge, he had loved the weather here - almost always warm and bright, so unlike the grey damp that often permeated London even on fine weather days. Now it was just another thing he found unbearable about the place - that there were so many lovely mornings, just like the one upon which she had died. 

He could withstand his failure to protect Buffy from the Master; he could withstand Jenny's death; he could withstand the torture of his love's murderer; he could withstand the often petty and occasionally malicious interference of his colleagues on the Council; he could withstand the pressure of so many near disasters incurred while averting apocalypse after apocalypse. He could even withstand the death of the girl he had come to think of as his own daughter - if only just. But he could not continue to do it here, where there were far too many memories of her. 

If he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, had it not been for the message Dawn had borne to them all - her sister's last words - he probably wouldn't have been able to do as much as he had. 

_Live for me._

To do any less would have been to dishonour her sacrifice, so he had done as she asked - although for the first few days, he had needed the crutch of a bottle to see him through the worst of the pain. He had been careful with his drinking though, never allowing himself to get too far into his cups. He drank only enough to dull the ache, knowing that no amount of alcohol would ever be able to obliterate it. Over a week or two, he had weaned himself from the habit and had fully gotten back to the business of daily life - such as it was for any responsible person in the area who knew of the Hellmouth's existence. 

Research and slaying filled his days and nights as they had for the last five years - fighting evil didn't allow for bereavement leave. However in continuing the battle, he and the other survivors had found some measure of solace. Buffy was dead, but they could continue her work - not just because it needed doing, but as a memorial to her. 

Even without a Slayer, they managed to hold their own. Granted, with Glory safely dead, the matter of dealing with the standard demons and vampires was a trifling affair, and easily handled. Things had been comparatively quiet since the showdown with Glorificus, and a large part of the reason was due to their charade with the Buffybot. Buffy's reputation as a Slayer had been fearsome for years, and the news that she had defeated and killed a _goddess_ had spread through the demonic community like wildfire. As a result, most of the demons which might have become a cause for concern had left Sunnydale post-haste in the wake of Glory's demise, in fear that the Slayer would turn her attention to them next. Consequently, activity around the Hellmouth had been substantially diminished - at least for the time being. 

While he had found comfort in continuing his work with the others, he had noticed a change over the past few weeks. At first, their grief had drawn them together, but as time passed, the group was reforming - and it didn't appear to include him. 

With a little thought, the reason why was quite clear: his relationship to the others had been largely formed through Buffy. When she and her friends were in high school, they had seen him first as her Watcher, and then as their librarian. In short, he had been perceived primarily as a mentor, rather than a friend. While that had served well enough when his Slayer and her friends had been teenagers, they were teenagers no longer. 

His relationship with Buffy had grown over the years, evolving as the Slayer grew into adulthood - but his relationships with Willow and Xander never had. He remained an authority figure who was worthy of their respect and trust, even their admiration - but he had not been, and still wasn't, their _friend_. And if his connection to them was once-removed, his connection to Tara and Anya was doubly so. 

As for Dawn... 

He had never had much to do with the Slayer's little sister - even including the artificial memories of her that the monks of Dagon had magically fabricated - and now the churning conflict of emotions the teen wrought in him defied belief. There was self-loathing and guilt, for if the opportunity had presented itself that terrible night, he would have killed her. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself or with the consequences, but to save the world, he would have done it - and that would have destroyed Buffy just as surely as her leap from the tower had. 

There was also some amount of blame and anger that he simply couldn't divest himself of - those feelings weren't directed so much at Dawn for existing, but at the thrice-bedamned monks who had decided to involve the Slayer in their scheme to hide the Key in the first place. At the same time, had it not been for their plotting, Dawn wouldn't exist - and there would now be nothing left in the world of the daughter of his heart. For although it had taken him some time, he had finally realized the meaning of Buffy's words... 

_"She's me. She's made of **me**..."_

The monks had needed a vessel to contain the Key, and a perfect disguise to hide it from Glory's eyes - and they had decided to make the vessel and the disguise one and the same. After all, there would be no reason for anyone to suspect that a younger sister of the Chosen One was anything other than a normal human girl. However, to create a true sister had to have required spell components incorporating Buffy's genetic material - hairs from her comb, blood from a discarded band-aid, saliva from a toothbrush or piece of gum, any such like would have done - and the monks obviously must have gotten them. 

Dawn may have only existed as a human being for less than a year, but she truly _was_ Buffy's sister. In a sense, she was even Buffy's child. He knew that now - and because he did, he understood the choice his Slayer had made with perfect clarity. 

As Buffy had said that night on the tower, she had figured it out. And once she had, she chose the only course open to her that would save everyone she cared about, as well as the world - at the cost of herself. She truly was a hero, had proven it many times over - but never more resoundingly than when she had chosen to die in Dawn's place. 

With the storm of emotions that assaulted him whenever he was around Dawn for any significant length of time, Giles found it difficult to be in her presence - and she could sense it. As a result, the girl had also distanced herself from him, turning to the others for the comfort he found himself too emotionally confounded to give her. 

Of course, that simply added to his estrangement. Complicating matters even further, he had come to realize that he was no longer an essential player in the day-to-day operations of patrolling the Hellmouth. With time and experience, the others had grown to be as effective in battling demons as he had ever been. 

Magically, Tara and Willow were a far greater force than he was. Xander had shown a definite talent for weaponry, and had long been helping to manufacture and maintain their cache of crossbows, quarrels, stakes, axes and the like - plus the young man was both faster and brawnier than Giles was himself. And Anya had likely forgotten more about demons that he could ever hope to know, seeing as she had been one for twelve hundred years. Finally, as far as research went, the whole group was well capable of the task, and all the available material they might need was ready to hand. 

It was happening gradually, but between his emotional distance from the others and his redundancy, Giles was becoming increasingly shut out. There were times (more and more frequently in the last few weeks) when he would enter the room and the conversation would briefly still, as if he were interrupting them in the middle of something. Willow and Anya especially seemed to be almost evasive around him at times. Through some conversational slips they had made, he knew they had had meetings - not for fun, but for some purpose - without him. 

He might have been able to understand why it was happening, but that didn't make it hurt any less. 

More and more often, even when he was with them, he felt alone, rootless. As he had come to realize that he lacked their friendship, since Buffy's death, he also realized that he had come to lack his sense of purpose. Over the years, he had grown to define himself through his role as her Watcher. And as Buffy had so succinctly put it when putting the Council in its place - a Watcher without a Slayer might as well be watching Masterpiece Theatre. 

If he wanted to move on with his life, honouring Buffy's final wishes, he needed time and space to rebuild his sense of self. Someplace both comforting and familiar was required for that, and England was the logical choice. 

Away from everything that might openly remind him of the young woman he had come to love so deeply, he could mend the still unhealed emotional wounds left by her death, and determine what path the remainder of his own life should take. What he was going through was probably quite similar to the experiences of parents who had lost children. And if this was what it felt like, he found himself thankful that Joyce, bless her, hadn't lived to know the sensation. That was at least one tragedy that had been spared the Summers family... 

Sighing, he started the car and drove toward his first destination. Fortunately, the florist was always open early. Upon his arrival, he exited the vehicle and went into the shop, reappearing a scant few minutes later with three bouquets. After carefully placing them on the passenger seat, he climbed back into the car, and made his way toward the cemetery. 

He went to Jenny's grave first. Setting the flowers (not roses - ever since the night he had found her cooling body artfully arranged in his bed, he hadn't been able to abide them) down by the headstone, he paused there for some minutes, remembering their all too brief time together. The pain had never gotten any better, but it had gotten easier to bear with the passing years. He ran his fingers over her headstone, thinking of what might have been as he traced her name one last time. At last, he rose and slowly walked deeper into the cemetery, to the place where Joyce and Buffy lay buried side by side. 

As he drew closer to the place, he saw that there had been a recent visitor... 

His eyes flashed with barely contained fury as he approached, thinking that someone had dared to litter on their graves. However, his anger soon dissipated, for he had been mistaken. The 'trash' was in good condition, and clearly placed near the markers with care - like offerings of some kind. Now curious and somewhat apprehensive, Giles bent to examine them. 

There was an empty wine bottle propped against Buffy's headstone, next to some sourdough bread (in life, she had been particularly fond of the stuff) and a paperback copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Brow furrowed, he turned to Joyce's resting place, where he found a tin of cocoa. Beside it, there was some kind of booklet that had been left open on top of the grave - but it wasn't a booklet. 

It was a copy of Soap Opera Digest - with a cover story about recent plot developments on Passions. 

Absently, Giles set his tokens down beside the others - he would say his goodbyes a little later. Right now, for reasons he didn't entirely understand, he felt compelled to pay the previous mourner a visit. 

Since Buffy's death, Spike had defied all expectations. Rather than simply leave town, mourning no more than a lost opportunity to gratify his Slayer obsession, Spike had remained in Sunnydale. More than that, he continued to slay with them, even though his only possible motivation for doing so - currying favour with Buffy - was gone. 

Astonishing... but no more so than his reaction to her death. Giles had never believed that a demon could be capable of grief - not for the death of a human, at least. The mere idea went against everything the Watcher knew. However, if grief wasn't what the vampire was feeling, it was something very close to it. 

Giles well remembered how Spike had broken down at the sight of Buffy's corpse, sobbing into his hands, his whole body shuddering. His tears only stopped after Dawn had painfully made her way toward him, and he had caught the scent of her blood. Something seemed to have snapped into place in the vampire's mind then, and he had snarled the order to get Dawn to the hospital, breaking the rest of them out of their horrified daze... 

In the first days and weeks that followed, Spike had become a shadow of himself. He clearly wasn't feeding regularly, and unless Dawn was about, you could barely get him to open his mouth. Even through his own misery, Giles had noticed the signs and became concerned - if for no other reason, without the vampire's strength, their slaying capability would have been even further compromised. 

His concern had culminated in one of the more bizarre nights of his life, when he had confronted the vampire, and ended up sharing reminiscences of Buffy with a depressed, drunken Spike. At least Giles had been able to determine that suicide was not on the the vampire's agenda, though his slurred explanations made little sense. Spike had rambled on about men, monsters, love, death and promises. One thing the Watcher had learned was that Spike believed he owed it to Buffy to look after Dawn. In turn, that had led to the other: there was obviously more to demons - or at least to this particular demon - than Giles had ever imagined. 

Even now, a part of his mind scoffed at the very thought of a soulless creature experiencing any feelings excepting those that were selfish in nature. In order to for that to happen, a conscience was required... wasn't it? 

Giles' mind shied away from considering that question before he could give himself a headache. 

Arriving at the door of the crypt, he knocked - no answer. He pushed the door open, and poked his head inside. 

"Spike?" 

Still no reply. Giles stood at the door for a minute before stepping inside, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom. The vampire was nowhere in sight. Stepping deeper into the tomb, his foot struck something - another empty bottle from the sound of it. Stooping, he picked it up and sniffed at its mouth - bourbon. 

The Watcher frowned - Spike hadn't been scheduled to patrol with the robot the other night... 

"Lookin' for props before you give the temperance speech, Rupert?" 

Giles started, dropping the bottle, as Spike's voice broke into his thoughts, and he turned to face the sound. The vampire was emerging from a trapdoor in the corner which the Watcher hadn't noticed before. 

The human eyed the demon critically. Spike seemed to have slowly been coming to terms with... whatever it was that he felt in the aftermath of the Slayer's death. He no longer looked haggard, and had gained back most of the weight he had lost. He had even started to be somewhat social with the others when patrolling, though he still tended to keep to himself at all other times. Given the state the vampire had been in before, Giles wouldn't have believed such a recovery to be possible a scant two months ago... 

Spike regarded his countryman with a raised eyebrow, mildly irritated at the lack of response to his question, and bristling somewhat at the Watcher's silent scrutiny. Giving a mental shrug, he attempted to goad his visitor into speech. 

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm sober. Only had one bottle, an' that's hardly enough to get me sozzled, as you may remember - or not." 

Giles coloured slightly in a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance at the pointed reminder of his last visit to the crypt - it had been during the time he was hitting the bottle to cope, and it was the only time since Buffy had died that he had allowed himself to get well and truly drunk. 

"I've better things to do than inquire after your personal habits, Spike." 

"Coulda fooled me - it might put some excitement into your tweedy, leather-elbow-patched life for once. So to what do I owe the honour then?" 

"You were at their graves earlier today." 

Giles had the satisfaction of seeing the incipient belligerence in Spike's eyes drain away, soon replaced by surprise - and a hint of furtive concern. 

"Yeah," the vampire said warily, "what of it? A bloke can't pay his respects?" 

"Certainly he can. So why have _you_ done so?" Giles asked softly. 

Spike stiffened at the question, realizing the Watcher's intimation. The vampire's eyes went flat and hard, and the dangerous glint in them made Giles instinctively feel for the crucifix he carried in his jacket pocket. 

"I was a man once, Rupert," Spike said, his voice cold, "and as my vicious bitch of a great-granddam was fond of sayin', what we were informs what we become. The man I was may be dead, but that's not to say he's gone. He's part of me, as much as the demon wearin' his body is. You'd do well to remember that." 

"You'll have to pardon me," Giles said, his curiosity piqued despite the situation, "as it's difficult to remember something one never actually knew. There is no record at all of what precisely the change from human to vampire entails, apart from the obvious things. And given the first act of most new-made vampires is to slaughter whomever crosses their path, with a special preference for their human family and friends - it rather suggests that nothing human is left, doesn't it?" 

"Only if you don't have the brains or the willingness to look any closer - an' that's a pretty fair description of the bleedin' Council of Wankers, innit?" 

"Perhaps," Giles admitted cautiously, "but given the available evidence..." 

"An' what evidence would that be? The killing? Newsflash, Watcher: if you take all the people who've ever been killed in this world, you'll find that most of 'em were done in by one of three things: natural causes, disease, or each other! Demons haven't got a patch on what humans have managed to do to themselves over the years, and at least we're more honest about our reasons for killin' than you are." 

"If that heartfelt declaration was meant to convince me of your profound and abiding sentimentality, it was sadly unsuccessful," Giles said dryly. 

"Not tryin' to convince you of anything, Rupert. Just statin' facts is all. And the fact is that it's easier to kill somethin' if you can make yourself believe what you're killin' is nothin' like you. I can't fault the Council for takin' that line with their Slayers - doubt causes hesitation, an' that'll get a Slayer killed faster 'n anythin' else - but I can fault the bloody bastards for swallowin' their own line of shite. Remember the Judge?" 

Giles blinked at the apparent change of subject. 

"Why yes, of course..." 

"The blue ninny wanted to fry Dru an' me - would've done it too, if it wasn't for the fact we were the ones what put 'im back together. Know why? Because we 'reeked of humanity', that's why! Because we 'shared affection'! A hundred an' twenty years between the two of us, spillin' blood like cheap wine wherever we went an' happy to do it - and we were too human for him, because we _loved_. I lost my life, my soul an' my conscience when I was turned - not my capacity to feel." 

"So... what _do_ you feel?" 

Spike laughed bitterly. 

"'Hath not a vampire hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?' What do you _think_ I feel?" he demanded, his anger rising. "The woman I love and her mother, whom I admired and respected, are both dead - I _miss_ them, you moron! I grieve for them! I sorrow and I hurt and I _ache_, because unlike the rest of you lot, I know there's no bloody chance I'll ever see them again. I've had everything I'm ever gonna have with 'em, it wasn't anythin' like enough, and it bloody well _hurts_. That answer your question, Watcher?" 

An uncomfortable silence descended. For the first time, Giles fully realized how great a disservice he and the others had done to their former enemy. Spike may not have been a friend precisely, but he was an ally - an ally who had suffered and bled with them. Yet the vampire usually received worse treatment at their hands now than in the days when they had actively been trying to kill him. When he was unchipped, he had at least received a certain amount of respect from them, even if it was a respect born of fear. Respect was almost never accorded him now, and after all they had endured together, Spike deserved far better of them than that. 

Giles knew he should have been an example to the others - done the right thing, and shown some common courtesy to their hapless foe when desperation had forced the vampire to go to them for help. Instead, the Watcher had stooped to baiting Spike, and the rest of the Scoobies had followed suit. 

Guiltily, Giles recalled how he and the vampire had shared some black humour over an altered version of the St. Crispin's day speech on the night of his Slayer's last battle, and his shame only increased as more of the original quotation was brought to his mind. 

*'...we band of brothers/For he to-day that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile/This day shall gentle his condition'... our band has failed one of our own.* 

Spike was right - they had never put any stock in his feelings, because to do so would have been to admit that demons were capable of feelings in the first place. Although they had witnessed the full gamut of emotions - negative and positive - in the vampire since they had first crossed paths, they chose to dismiss those emotions as inconsequential simply because he wasn't human. As Spike had said, it was ever so much easier for them to do that than to admit what they killed bore more than a surface resemblance to themselves. 

There was little the Watcher could do to make up for his past slights, but he could at least amend his behaviour from now on... 

"I confess to being somewhat surprised at your choice of volume," Giles said at last. He smiled faintly as the vampire met his eyes. "Given your other offerings, I would have thought to find the Rubaiyat itself." 

"Yeah, well, couldn't find my copy," Spike said, recognizing and accepting the other man's words as the peacemaking overture they were. "Thought ol' Willie would do in a pinch." He ducked his head as if embarrassed, then changed the subject. "What are you doin' in the boneyard so bloody early anyway?" 

Giles was brought out of the shock of learning that Spike actually possessed books - of poetry, no less! - by the vampire's question, and it was the Watcher's turn to look uncomfortable. 

Spike's eyes narrowed as he took in the other man's reaction to his question, then put his century's worth of observational skills to use. The facts all pointed to one conclusion, and he answered his own question before Giles could muster a reply. 

"You're leaving," the vampire stated. "Why?" 

Giles certainly hadn't intended to have this conversation with the vampire, let alone anyone else. He hadn't wanted to explain or justify his decision to anyone at all, hence why he had chosen to say nothing about his departure, and simply left behind a note with his goodbyes. At least, that had been his decision at the conscious level. However, his subconscious obviously had other ideas, seeing as _something_ had drawn him to the crypt when he should have been driving to the airport... 

"I need some time to... make some sense of my place in the world now, I suppose," he said haltingly. "When Buffy was alive, things were simple, I had a purpose - but now..." 

Giles voice trailed off, and Spike nodded in understanding. 

"Know what you mean, Rupert," he said quietly, "All too well at that." 

Giles opened his mouth to say that the vampire couldn't possibly understand his feelings - then stopped cold as he remembered both his new resolution and each time William the Bloody had of necessity reinvented himself in the last five years alone. 

"You do, don't you?" the Watcher said with a note of wonder in his voice. 

Spike chuckled with genuine humour. 

"Too right, I do - seein' as I've gone through it a time or three. And it's always because of the same thing, you know." 

"I'm not sure I follow..." 

"Love, mate. We're all bloody fools for it," the vampire said. "Love's the only thing we exist for, the only thing we change for. An' it doesn't matter what the change might be, or if the occasion's findin' love or losin' it. And it's bloody reciprocal - you might change for love, but at the same time love'll change you. If there's one thing I've learned in a century and a half, that's what it is." He paused. "You loved Buffy. Now you've got to figure out how to live without 'er, and you need to scarper for a while to get yourself sorted. Peaches did the same thing, for the same reason. Gave doin' it some thought meself, to tell the truth." 

Giles looked curious. 

"And why haven't you?" 

"I made a promise to a lady." 

Spike's eyes were distant as he spoke, his sharp-featured face a study in both grief and resolve. "Buffy asked me to protect the Bit that night. An' I told 'er I would - 'til the end of the world. Seein' as the world an' Dawn are both still 'ere, no thanks to me, I've still got a promise to keep. So here I am and 'ere I'll stay, for as long as she does." 

While he may have ignored such clues in the past, Giles didn't fail to pick up on what Spike hadn't said. 

"I see. And after?" the Watcher asked softly. 

"Hardly matters, does it? Apart from a few more amusing diversions an' a gentler climate, there isn't much difference between 'ere and Hell anymore - not to me." 

The vampire's voice was as empty as it was matter-of-fact, and Giles was again struck by his own foolishness. It wasn't that demons had no feelings, he suddenly realized - they simply had no conscience to keep those feelings in check. Consequently, the emotions of a demon were, in addition to being more selfish, far more violent and far more visceral than those of a human - but no less real. 

Whether Giles wanted to admit it or not, Spike had truly cared for Buffy, perhaps as deeply as the Watcher had himself. Given his new insight about demonic emotions, it was even possible the vampire's feelings had in some ways run even deeper than Giles' own. As a result, he found himself in a situation that no Watcher had ever imagined in his worst nightmares - attempting to offer solace to William the Bloody. 

*Somewhere in the universe, some Power is falling about itself, I'm sure* 

"Spike, I know it's cold comfort at best, but Buffy was willing to entrust the most precious thing in her life to you - twice. Though she didn't love you, she would never have done such a thing if she didn't care for you in some way," Giles said. "Dawn... is all that's left of her now. And I certainly hope that you care more about the girl than to consider her, and your duty to her, as nothing more than 'amusing diversions'," he reproached. 

Spike flinched. 

"You know that's not what I meant, Rupert," he said earnestly. "That girl is everythin' to me now, everything... Dawn's no diversion, she's my bloody purpose!" 

"Good - as she should be. I feel much easier in my mind, knowing that someone is here who will watch over her as I would." 

"Since when did you give a bloody..." Spike got out angrily before Giles calmly interrupted him. 

"I realize that Dawn and I are not now, nor have we ever been, terribly close. However, the reason is not that I don't care for her - I do, very much. But sorting through my feelings for her is one of the things I need to do while I'm away, and I believe you can understand why. I hardly need tell you that Buffy was as a daughter to me, and Dawn..." 

Words failed him at that point, and Spike saw for the first time just how deeply torn the Watcher had become. 

*No bloody wonder it's driven him to this... and the rest of the sods too blind to see it - not that it's such a shocker. If it doesn't bite 'em on the arse, they're bloody oblivious. But _I_ should've noticed...* 

"Right - no need to fash, Rupert," he said. "I'll look after our girl." 

"I know," Giles said with a small smile - then an idea came to him. "I've left information on how to contact me for the others at the shop - but here," he said, producing a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbling rapidly. He finished, and handed it to the vampire. "Just in case." 

"In case?" Spike questioned, pocketing the note. 

"I trust the others to see to daily matters without trouble. However, they can be somewhat less than forthright in asking for help at times - especially mine," he said, his expression rueful. "I'm not sure if it's a natural consequence of their growing up, or if some of Buffy's habits rubbed off on them over the years. At any rate, I know you're intelligent, resourceful - and I can trust your judgement. If you ever come across something which you feel ought to be brought to my attention..." 

The vampire nodded, and Giles held out his hand. Spike's eyes widened in disbelief and pleasure at the simple gesture, then he firmly shook the offered hand. 

"Safe flight, Rupert - I'll be in touch," the vampire said, as the Watcher made his way to the crypt's entrance. 

Giles paused at the door, his face solemn. 

"I'm counting on it." 

The Watcher walked into the early morning sunlight, closing the door softly behind him.   
  
  
  
  


Quotes: 

1. Paraphrased from William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene I.   
2. William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV, Scene III.   
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 4 Delivering a soul from tormen...

"Sweetie, you need to eat something." 

Tara's concerned voice managed to penetrate Willow's concentration, and the red-haired witch looked up with a start from the scattered tomes in front of her, her eyes falling on the nearby clock. Her eyes widened as she realized just how long she had been working and she turned a weary and apologetic smile on her lover. 

"Yeah - all work and no food makes Willow a woozy wiccan." She frowned. "Involuntary alliteration - definite sign of nutrient deprivation." 

"And sleep deprivation..." 

"Nah, involuntary sibilance is sleep deprivation, I'm still good to go," Willow protested. Her declaration was somewhat compromised by the enormous yawn that followed it, and she flushed. 

Tara paused, taking the time to choose her words carefully before she spoke again. With Buffy's death, Willow had emerged as the de facto leader of the remaining Scooby gang, and she had managed that role with her customary success. While Willow's ability came as no surprise to Tara, the blonde witch worried about the single-minded intensity her lover devoted to the job, and the toll it exacted of her. That intensity was becoming unhealthy, and was only increasing as the summer wore on - exponentially, since they had finally found the spell they had been searching for... 

"You've been running yourself down," Tara said gently. "I know how important this is to you - it's just as important to me. Not only because I miss her too, and want to see her safe, but because I can see how this whole... situation hurts you. If you don't stop and recharge every now and then, ultimately things will take longer anyway - you need to take a break." 

"I know... but every time I try, I just think of all the times I told Buffy the same thing," Willow said, her gaze haunted. "She never listened, and somehow she always came through for us - _always_. I need to come through for _her_. I don't want to waste any more time..." 

"You aren't wasting time, baby," Tara said, taking the other witch into her arms before Willow could break into tears, soothing her. "You're doing what you have to do. Buffy always ran out and confronted things head-on, but there were actual things for her to confront. A spell isn't like some demon that you can fight. You don't fight magic, you have to work with it. And that's exactly what we're doing. It just takes time." 

"Time Buffy may not have..." 

"Time Buffy might never have unless we make sure we've got things right!" Tara broke the hug, but still clasped Willow's shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. "You have to think of the positive stuff, how far we've come. Just knowing there's a ritual that'll work - _really_ work, and not bring back a thing that only _looks_ like her - is miles ahead of where we were before, let alone where we are now." 

"Yeah," Willow agreed with a small smile. "Who would have thought that one day I'd be thankful to have Anya around?" 

Tara gave her a reproving look. Although Willow and the former demon had reached an accommodation of sorts, they would never be friends. The best they could hope for was to have a reasonable amount of respect between them. Anya's brainstorm about the troll hammer before the fight with Glory, coupled with her recollection of the existence of the Protocols of Osiris had done a lot to bring that about on Willow's side... 

_"I knew it!" Anya squealed triumphantly, as she finished reading through the ancient parchment before her. "I just **knew** I'd heard about about it somewhere!"_

_Every head at the research table turned toward the former vengeance demon._

_"What is it?" Willow asked tersely._

_"Back in 1182 I was dating this Kazykk demon, Hazar, and he'd mentioned there was a ritual using Osiris that could resurrect the dead. He even claimed he'd seen it done once! He was always a bit of a blowhard, though - it was one of the reasons I broke it off with him - so I didn't pay any attention to it at the time. Well, last session I remembered Hazar, and ordered in some of the scrolls he might be mentioned in, just in case - and here it is!"_

_Eagerly, Willow and Tara crowded in to look at the parchment while Anya received a celebratory kiss and public display of affection from Xander, which he quietly promised would lead to a private display of affection once they got home._

_"'By exercising the Protocols of Osiris,'" Willow read, "'the dead may be fully restored to life and soul joined to body, if the petitioner proves worthy. Yet let all who would attempt this feat beware: to channel the power bestowed to Osiris from its source is to breach the boundary of the Sunless Lands, from whence few return, and fewer still return unchanged...' Goddess," she breathed. "This is it! I know it! Anya, I could kiss you! In a non-gay way," the witch hastily amended, but at Anya's hurt look, she continued. "I mean, because I know you're not gay, so you'd be uncomfortable and anyway, Xander might be upset - not that you're aren't attractive."_

_"Why thank you, Willow," Anya beamed. "If I was a lesbian, I would want to have sex with you too..."_

_"Not that I want to break up the bondy-moment here," Xander said, desperately trying not to focus on the mental image Anya's words presented, "but the next order of business should be finding the actual Protocols of Whatsis - where do we look?"_

Tara remembered that time fondly. Armed with their discovery, the group had redoubled their research, working together seamlessly - and it had only taken about a week more before they located the ritual itself, though they had to wait an agonizing extra week until the precious text it was stored in could be sent to them. Once they received it, the witches and the ex-demon had immediately fallen to the business of translation and analysis, doing all they could to verify that the spell would actually do what it promised. And with every bit they translated, they became more and more convinced that it would - though the powers invoked would turn on the caster in an eyeblink if anything went wrong. 

Tara couldn't help but wish that the spell wasn't so perilous - but magic of this calibre always was. The danger involved in any magical ritual was invariably in direct proportion to the magnitude of what the magic was intended to accomplish. It was hard to conceive of a magnitude greater than resurrecting the dead, and the potential consequences of failing this spell didn't bear thinking about. Still, if that was the risk they had to take... 

The blonde shuddered. She didn't even want to imagine what it must be like in Glory's dimension - the creatures that had appeared once the portal opened were enough to give her nightmares. She only hoped that Buffy's soul was still intact. They simply couldn't leave any part of her to suffer in that awful place... 

_"My God," Xander whispered. "You really think so?"_

_Willow nodded faintly._

_"I didn't want to believe it," she said. "But I got to thinking about what we know about portals from Cordelia's wish, and stuff Anya's told us. And it makes sense. Buffy jumped into it to save us, and her body's here - but we don't know where **she** ended up."_

_"You have a point," Anya mused. "It's actually happened before, too. Some portals have been known to actually separate a mortal soul from its body, though to be honest those are really rare - the only ones I've ever heard of were back in 79 and 1883, and they really didn't end well - and we don't know what type of portal Glory was opening. But given it was an end-of-the-world thing, there's a fair chance you're right, and that Buffy - her soul, anyway - is wherever Glory wanted to go."_

_"Y-you mean... her soul might be trapped there, after everything she did for us, for everybody?" Tara asked, appalled. "That's..."_

_"That's something so far beyond badness only dogs can hear it," Xander said, his fists clenching. "After all the crap she had to go through in her life, I liked to think that she was at least in a good place now..."_

_"It's not right," Tara said, shaking her head. "We've got to be able to appeal to the Powers or something..."_

_"Or something," Willow said. "If the Powers ever gave a hoot about Buffy, apart from making sure she died when the Master bit her to fulfil their stupid prophecy, they've never shown it. They won't help, so it's up to us."_

_"But what can we do?" Xander asked._

_Willow stood, resolve-face on._

_"We're going to bring her back."_

They had decided to shield Dawn from their planning for obvious reasons - with all she had already been through, she didn't need to know that the sister who had died for her was in all likelihood still suffering. On top of that, they didn't want to get the teen's hopes up in case they met with failure. 

Giles had been excluded for much the same reason - Buffy's death had been almost more than the man could bear. They had all noticed the tumbler of scotch that seemed to be surgically attached to Giles' hand in the days after his Slayer's demise, but none of them had been able to confront him about it. Thankfully, his drinking had ceased to be a problem, and they had decided not to take a chance and change that. At least now that Giles was back in England, they no longer had to worry about what discovering their plans might do to him. And as for Spike... 

Tara had felt he could be trusted, but Willow hadn't wanted to take the risk. The redhead had argued that given his obsession with Buffy, they had no way of knowing how Spike might react to either success or failure, and the others had agreed with her. Tara herself still had serious reservations about what they proposed to do, but she couldn't see any other way to accomplish their goal. Leaving Buffy's soul to the tender mercies of a Hell dimension was simply unacceptable - that was the only reason she was going along with Willow's plan. After all, once you rescued a soul, what else could you do with it but give it a body? 

At least this ritual was nowhere near as... _ugly_... as the only other one they knew of that might do the job. Anya had brought up the Scroll of Aberjian a couple of weeks before they discovered the Protocols, but even her still-more-demonic-than-human morality recognized that spell went far, far beyond merely being 'wrong'. 

"We're almost done the translations now," Tara said at last. "After that, it'll just be a matter of getting the ingredients together, and double-checking our work to make sure we've got the accents and everything down. Don't want to end up like the wizard Baruffio," she teased. 

Willow nodded, her smile more genuine, though she recognized the warning in her lover's jest as well. 

"Yeah," she agreed wryly. "Ending up on the floor with a buffalo on your chest is pretty darned pleasant compared to what could happen if we screw this up. And honestly, I'm so not looking forward to getting some of the ingredients..." 

"The blood sacrifice?" Tara asked. 

Willow nodded unhappily. "I keep on going over that part of the spell, hoping I got the translation wrong after all. I know I didn't, and I know you and Anya didn't, and I know it's not like my looking at it a few billion times is going to change the words - but I really don't like that part of it..." 

"Good," Tara said firmly. Willow looked at her in confusion, and the blonde explained. "Blood magic - any blood magic - is serious stuff. Blood is life. The day you're able to take that for granted is the day you've become something you've spent your life fighting." 

"'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. For when you stare persistently into an abyss, the abyss also stares into you'," Willow quoted somberly. "I think I really get that now... at least I've got some time to work myself up for it. Mercury won't be retrograde for weeks yet." 

"I could do it, if you'd rather..." Tara began, but Willow cut her off with a wave. 

"No," Willow said, determined. "This whole thing is my idea. If there's dirty work to be done, I should be the one to do it. But," she said, her voice softening, "I really, really want to thank you for offering." 

Tara leaned forward, bringing her lips to Willow's in a sweet kiss. 

"You're welcome - and if you really want to thank me, you can come on downstairs and eat something." 

"I could have a little something up here," Willow said mischievously, but Tara only brushed her hands away with a laugh. 

"Something that actually has nutritional value - I still have some of my famous pancake batter ready, and there's blueberries." 

"Funny shapes?" 

"Funny shapes," Tara smiled, holding out her hand to help the redhead to her feet. They were halfway down the stairs when Tara stopped. 

"Oh! The books..." 

They had been careful to conceal the texts they were using for researching and translating the Protocols in the Magic Box safe - no worries about break-ins there, as only a fool attempted to get between a still-very-well-connected ex-vengeance demon and her money - but there was still a lot of niggling detail work to be done. And as the date approached for the constellations to be in the correct alignment for the ritual, they were anxious to make sure that everything was not only finished, but double and triple-checked well in advance. To that end, the witches had started to bring some of their work home with them, always taking the precaution to bring all the spell material with them whenever they left the house, and making certain none of their notes was ever left where Dawn or Spike might see. 

"Not to worry," Willow reassured. "I placed a glamour on them. To anyone who isn't us, it'll just look like we've been having a college-related study-fest, instead of a magic-related one. I'm an only child, but I remember Buffy complaining about how Dawn used to go through her stuff, and although she isn't stealing anymore, I figure there's a still a good chance she might not be above some snoopage, in what I understand is grand little sister tradition..." 

"Or daughter," Tara smiled wistfully, continuing on down the stairs and making her way to the kitchen. "I used to borrow Mom's sweaters that way. Dawn probably wouldn't go after our clothes, but you're right - if there was some magic stuff around, she'd 'just happen' to find it. Kinda like a certain redhead I know," she said, playfully poking Willow in the ribs. 

"Can I help it if I'm naturally inquisitive? I just want to be a better witch..." 

"I know you do - but there's more to it than just knowing stuff," Tara said seriously, as she started rummaging through the refrigerator. "That's like, the easy part - especially for someone with a memory like yours. You're way better at absorbing information than I'll ever be, and you have a gift for seeing how everything links together. You can figure things out by theory alone better than anyone I know. But there's a difference between theory and practice..." 

"I know that," Willow said, her voice turning sullen. "Give me credit for learning from my mistakes, at least." 

"I do, and I know you have," Tara said, setting the berries and butter down by the stove. "Honey, I'm not trying to be critical. I'm trying to point out just how good you are - though I guess I'm not doing it too well - because I don't think _you_ realize how good you really are." 

"I am?" 

"You are. But it's like you think you're some kind of failure whenever you come across something you don't know, and that's just not true. _Nobody_ can know everything. It doesn't make you a failure, it makes you human. And humans make mistakes. It's nothing to be ashamed of." 

"That depends on the mistake," Willow said, colouring. "The 'do my will' spell definitely falls under the shame category. Even now, whenever I think of it I still get the urge to bake cookies..." 

"But you learned from it, right? There's only shame if you _don't_ learn from your mistakes - not to say that any of them ever become less embarrassing. I did tell you about the time I pulled a Sorcerer's Apprentice when I was ten, right?" 

Willow giggled. "Yeah - you had to clean the floor, and you got the idea after watching Fantasia..." 

"And my Mom was _this_ close to hexing the CEO of Disney," Tara smiled. "She might have even gone through with it, if her counter-charm hadn't worked." 

She busied herself at the stove. "You came to magic late, and I think that kind of explains some of the mistakes you've made. By the time you started spellcasting, you already had a lot of power, and it probably tended to get away from you a bit. And when you have the amount of power you do, that 'bit' can do a lot of damage." 

"Don't I know it," Willow winced. 

"But the more experience you get, the less of a problem it'll become," Tara said as she poured batter into the pan, then took a handful of berries to sprinkle onto the forming pancake. "You'll get more familiar with the flow of your power, and the fine control will come. And once that's in place, I'd say that ball of sunshine spell is going to be the first in a long line of Willow original successes." 

"You're wrong." 

"I am?" 

"Yup," the redhead smiled, stepping up behind the other witch and wrapping her arms around Tara's waist. "That's Willow and Tara original successes, thank you very much." 

Willow kissed the back of Tara's neck. "I love you," she said. 

"Love you," Tara replied, twisting within Willow's embrace to face her, and return her kiss. 

One of Tara's kisses was never enough for Willow, and the redhead greedily set about stealing as many as she could. It wasn't really much of a theft anyway, she mused, not when Tara was aiding and abetting... 

"Best not to start that kind of fire whilst you're already minding another kind, Glinda!" 

Startled, the witches separated, blushing furiously, while Spike smirked from his position at the head of the basement stairs. 

"That's how accidents happen, you know," he said sagely. 

Tara squawked as she belatedly remembered the pan on the stove, and dove to rescue the pancake. Fortunately, it hadn't burned, though it would be a little well-done on one side. Sighing with relief, she expertly flipped the cake, then got a plate, while Willow and Spike sat at the kitchen table and started to discuss the patrolling schedule. In a minute or so, the first pancake was done, and she placed it before Willow with a grin. 

The redhead looked down, and started to giggle uncontrollably. Tara had done quite a good job of pouring the batter so that the cake resembled Mickey Mouse - wearing a wizard's hat. 

Spike, not being in on the joke, could only admire the effort it took to produce that kind of funny shape. 

"Good work there, pet - don't suppose you've more of those pancakes to go 'round, do you?" he asked hopefully. 

"Maybe," Tara said, "We'll see what's left after Willow's done. In the meantime, we have some blood in the 'fridge - help yourself." 

"Ta, luv." 

Finding his mug from the rack of dishes on the counter, he poured out a measure of blood, and microwaved it until it was steaming. Settling down at the table again, he watched as Willow ate a series of pancakes in ever stranger shapes which Tara prepared for her, and sipped his blood. He was on his second cup when the front door opened. 

"I'm home!" Dawn called. 

"Nibblet! Did you have a good day?" Spike asked, getting up to meet her in the living room. 

"Yeah," she replied, dumping her book bag on the coffee table. "I got an A on that history essay about the Boxer Rebellion. It would've been an A+, but Mr. Davis took marks off for missing references, and it's not like he would've given them back if I'd footnoted 'William the Bloody', so I'm not complaining. I am starving, though - what's for dinner?" 

With the teenager's arrival, the four lapsed into their evening routine of dinner and homework, as they had done for more than a hundred days before - until Dawn offhandedly mentioned that she might need the vampire's help with a poetry-writing assignment that would be coming up in English class, and Spike nearly choked on his blood. 

"Are you okay, Spike?" she asked anxiously, patting him on the back. "I know it's not like you need to breathe or anything, but..." 

"...that's still bloody uncomfortable. I'm fine, Bit." 

"Good," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Thanks for not spraying." 

"Poetry's not all that bad, you know," Willow said. 

"I know - even Buffy liked it," Dawn said with a small smile. "She said it was her favourite class." 

"She did, eh?" Spike said softly. 

"Yeah, she did," Willow said. "She seriously got into it when we started studying the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam - she said she could relate to it, because it was really 'seize the day' type stuff. And she was really touched when you gave her that first edition that you found on eBay, Dawn - she so wasn't expecting it. Which reminds me, thanks for letting me borrow it for my Comp Lit class - it helped bunches, and I appreciate it." 

Dawn looked stricken, and her mouth worked, as if she was trying to find words, and the others looked at her in concern. 

"Dawn? Pet, what's wrong?" Spike asked. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, near tears. "I stole so many things, I forgot..." 

The vampire looked puzzled, but only briefly as he assimilated the facts. _Bloody hell - so that's where it got to..._

"You stole my book, pigeon?" he asked. 

He heard Willow exclaim "You read poetry?!", but he paid her no mind, intent on the teenager who was nodding miserably in answer to his question. 

"And you gave it to your sis?" 

Another nod. 

The vampire took a deep, unnecessary breath as he sorted through the mass of feelings that surged within him with the discovery of Dawn's betrayal - but when he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. 

"It's all right, Nibblet," he forced a smile. "You got everyone else when you were at it. Come to think of it, seein' as your Artful Dodger phase was all to get attention from people you cared about, I would've been offended to find out you'd never nicked anything from me. Now, none of that," he said, wiping a tear from Dawn's cheek. "You've said you're sorry, an' I know you haven't ever nicked anythin' else since - that night. An' I'm glad... glad that she liked it." 

"So you're not mad?" Dawn asked in a small voice. 

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know," he said, his smile becoming more genuine, "but I'm not angry at you, luv. It'd be kind of pointless, seein' as you've already apologized, an' I've accepted your apology. So I'll just have my book back, and we'll hear no more of this, right?" 

"Right," Dawn agreed. 

"Good - now finish your dinner, an' then we can get to your schoolwork." 

For the late Slayer's sister, loved ones and onetime greatest foe, the rest of the night passed much the same as all the others since her death. 

Chores were done after supper. 

Homework, both high school and collegiate, was completed, while the day's receipts were tallied at the Magic Box. 

Spike gave Dawn self-defense lessons while the remaining Scoobies researched the latest evils plaguing Sunnydale. 

The ex-demon, the carpenter, the two witches and the vampire arranged their schedule of patrolling and Dawn-watching. 

After the night's slaying, Spike was sure to look in on Dawn, and retrieved his book from Willow before returning to his crypt before morning. 

A book which had nestled between its aged, well-loved pages a neatly folded sheet of scrap paper, one side of which was covered in arcane scribblings, that an exhausted Willow had forgotten she had used as a bookmark.   
  


Various Notes 

Significance of the years noted by Anya: 79 - the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, resulting in the complete destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum; 1883 - the eruption and destruction of the island of Krakatoa, which affected planetary weather patterns for three years. 

The wizard Baruffio is from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, by J.K. Rowling - Professor Flitwick cites him as a cautionary example to students to ensure they remember to pronounce magical words clearly and correctly. 

Willow's quote about fighting monsters is from Friedrich Nietzsche. 

Spike's comment about being "mad, bad and dangerous to know" is actually Lady Caroline Lamb's description of the poet George Gordon, Lord Byron. 


	6. Chapter 5 Dreams and Discovery

_"Do I have something on my nose or what?"_

_Buffy laughed as she lounged back on the blanket he had spread for their picnic, and looked at him expectantly. She was radiant, clad in a silky, long, white, slip-like dress that somehow looked demure and provocative at the same time. The golden hair that cascaded over her tan shoulders appeared almost silver in the moonlight, and she was relaxed - **really **relaxed - and free from care, as he knew she had not been since the night she was Called. He simply couldn't take his eyes from her..._

_Shaking her head and smiling as he continued to stare in silence, she extended one bare foot across the space between them and jostled his leg._

_"Well?" she drawled._

_That finally drew him from his contemplation of her, and he gave a small smile of his own._

_"Sorry, love - it's just... I like lookin' at you."_

_"Sorta got that idea when I found your stash in the crypt before the manacle incident," she said._

_Her voice was teasing, not accusatory, but even so he flinched and began to apologize._

_"I didn't mean..."_

_"I know you didn't," she broke in softly. "Don't worry about it - it's not like it matters anymore. I shouldn't have been surprised by it though - it only figures your brilliant plans for seduction would follow your track record for brilliant planning in general. And no one ever accused any vampire of being down with the hearts-and-flowers sensitivity. But I get it now - what your intent was. And now that I've had a chance to think about it, the whole thing was actually pretty flattering, in a squicky sort of way."_

_She smiled at him then - an open, genuine Buffy-smile - and that combined with her tone of voice served to file down the barbs of her words, blunting them, making them playful rather than wounding. If his heart could beat, it would have swelled in his chest to have his Slayer joking with him, treating him as a friend and an equal - as a man, and not a monster._

_"What I mean this time is that it's good seein' you so happy, Slayer."_

_She grinned._

_"Good to be happy, Fang-face - it takes some getting used to, but I think I'm finally getting the hang of it. How about you?"_

_"What about me?"_

_"Are you happy, Spike?"_

_"As I'll ever be, love."_

_Her face went solemn._

_"I'm sorry to hear that."_

_"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice rising._

_"Just what I said - and you're so not distracting me with the display of temper. I, Buffy Ann Summers, **rule** at that little manoeuvre, and no man, woman or vampire can rival my supremacy. Plus, I know I tend to be self-absorbo girl, but I can be pretty observant when I want to be. I heard what you said, and I know you meant it exactly the way you said it. You're not happy - not really. But I'd hoped you might be by now, at least a little. You deserve that much."_

_"You don't know the half of what I deserve," he grated._

_"You're right - I probably don't," she agreed mildly. "But the way I see it, averting a couple of apocalypses, killing a whole lot of Big Uglies, and letting a Hellbitch torture you for the greater good has to count for something - not to mention playing chaperone to Dawn and five friends at that N'Sync concert last month. I mean, that alone is penance for a multitude of sins."_

_"Not enough though, is it? An' it never **will** be enough! If it wasn't for me pullin' off the most stupendous bloody cock-up of my entire unlife, you'd still be alive!"_

_"Maybe, and maybe not. Slayer, remember? Short shelf life. If it wasn't that night on the tower, it would have been some other time, that's all."_

_"But it would have been **later**," he said, his voice breaking. "It would have been at least one more bloody day of you in the world... don't you know there's nothin' I wouldn't do, just to have had that much? Nothin' that the Nibblet, or your mates, or your Watcher, or my bloody great poof of a Grandsire wouldn't do either, just to have had one more day of you... an' the reason why you didn't get that one more day is me!"_

_"And I thought I had guilt issues," Buffy said with a sigh and roll of her eyes. "Look - I didn't die because of you, I died because a demon - who did not happen to be you - wanted to suck up to a Hellgoddess who was out to destroy the world. I died because the alternative was to let Dawn die, and I couldn't let that happen. I wasn't going to lose one more person I loved, so I made a choice. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't see how you had anything to do with either the choice Doc made, or the choice I made. It's not your fault."_

_"Fine! So it's not my fault - it still doesn't change the fact that you're dead! It doesn't change the fact that all I'll ever have of you now are memories and dreams - memories that can fade, and dreams that die every time I wake! It's different for the others - they've at least got the comfort of knowin' that one day, when the chit with the ankh comes by to pick 'em up, they might get to be with you again. Even Peaches has that much, if the prophets have got it right. I've got nothing..."_

_She reached out, touching his face, and he closed his eyes, leaning into her caress._

_"Is this nothing? Dreams only die if you let them. And you have a part of me that no one else does."_

_He pulled back reluctantly, shaking his head in denial._

_"I know what you're aimin' at, Slayer - but you're wrong. I've got nothing with Dawn that any of the others don't have. She likes the Whelp, looks up to Red, looks to Glinda like she did to your Mum - an' she even appreciates the way Demon-girl always tells it like it is."_

_"Yeah - but she likes you, she looks up to you, she listens to you, and she appreciates you. You've got the package deal. You're the first real friend she ever had. You were the first one to treat her like an adult - like she was her own person, and not just 'Buffy's little sister'. Do you have any idea how important that is to her? How important you are to her because of it? She cares about you, Spike. She doesn't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life - or unlife - and we don't want that either."_

_"'We'?"_

_"Me and Mom - she hopes you've found another **Passions** pal, by the way."_

_"Clem. It's not the same, though."_

_"Good - she'll be glad. What you two see in that show is beyond me, but anyway... we care about you too. We're not expecting you to suddenly be all Prozac-vamp or anything - we know you need time to work through what you feel - but we all want you to let yourself be happy again one day. Can you do that, Spike? Can you at least try?"_

_"I never could resist a Summers lady, so it's not bloody likely I could resist three of 'em," he said softly. "I'll do my best, love, but no promises - it's been so bloody long since I was happy, I'm not sure I remember how to be anymore."_

_"It comes back to you, trust me. Kinda like riding a bicycle," she paused, frowning. "Maybe not the best analogy, because I don't know if you've ever even ridden a bike, and honestly, I can't picture you on one - bike shorts, so not Spike. So okay, call it like any skill that you haven't used in a while - you just need some practice to get it back."_

_"Yeah? An' how am I supposed to practice bein' happy?"_

_"You keep doing what you're doing - fighting, pool-sharking, looking after Dawn, and helping to save the world every now and then."_

_Reaching over, she clasped his hand._

_"You live, Spike."_

_He covered her hand with both of his, and began to draw it to his lips when the air that surrounded her began to glow, becoming brighter and brighter, until he couldn't see her any longer. He could still feel her though, and his lips just barely brushed her warm skin before he lost even the sensation of her hand in his, but her voice was clear._

_"You live."_

Her words were still sounding in his ears when he woke. 

He'd often dreamed of her, but none before this had ever been so vivid, nor left him with such a bittersweet peace. Unlike the two women he had loved in his unlife, he wasn't subject to prophetic dreams, but he knew this one for the message it was. 

Since he'd obtained the assurance of Death herself that his Slayer was truly at peace, he was no longer tormented by dreams of her suffering. But while the worst of his nightmares had gone away with that knowledge, he had still been bowed down by his guilt, his failure to protect Dawn at the one time that protection had been needed most. In his mind, his failure had caused Buffy's death just as surely as if he had thrown her from the tower himself. Since then, he had not lived - or unlived - he had merely existed, unable to move beyond his grief. He didn't _want_ to move beyond his grief - but as before, dead or not, the Slayer had found means to make her will known. 

*Always was a pushy little bint* he thought fondly. 

*I could just see her goin' after the bloody Prince of Stories 'imself for the favour, too - an' his sister probably would've helped 'er. Dream owes 'is sis, from all I've heard...* 

As if Buffy's acceptance of him as a man had not been gift enough, he now had the assurance that she _cared_ for that man. She might not have loved him, but she cared about his well-being, cared if he was happy or sad. 

It was more than he ever thought he'd have. 

He lay still in his bed for some time, committing every detail of his dream to memory, another weapon in the arsenal to use against his depression. He wasn't sure if he could do what she wanted - what all his Summers women wanted - but as promised, he was at least going to try. 

He rubbed his eyes, then turned the covers back and started to get up - but he stopped when he saw it. On his nightstand, the slim, leather-bound volume rested where he had left it the night before, too exhausted to face its pages and the memories that would flow from them. 

He wasn't tired now. 

Sitting up, he picked up the book with a trembling hand and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he did so. 

It was faint, as he expected - but beneath the newer scents of Dawn and the witches, he could still detect the heady perfume that had been the Slayer's own. Just as he remembered it when she was alive, just as it was in his dream, her scent was of sunshine and vanilla and sweet spices and **power**, and he stifled a moan as he allowed what remained of her essence to flood his senses. 

*Bitter and annoying, my lily-white arse... all the bloody perfumes of Arabia couldn't hold a candle to this...* 

At last, he gently opened the book and began to leaf through the poems within, trying to guess which of them had been among her favourites by the amount of her scent left on the pages. A futile exercise, he knew, as so much time had passed. At least he could content himself with simply breathing in what remained of her on each page he read, and the knowledge that she may have found some comfort in them. 

He was about an hour into his reading and reminiscing when he came across a folded sheet of paper tucked between the book's pages. Recognizing Willow's writing and scent immediately, he picked it up, thinking it was either scrap or one of her class notes. If it was scrap, he could just chuck it, but if it was one of her notes, she'd be happy to have it back, he was sure. Best to take a look and make sure which it was... 

The outside of the paper bore out the scrap theory - there was a list of some books and other source material she had used for an essay which he knew to be complete, but there was an astrological chart for Mercury sketched out on it as well. 

*Still, might as well make sure...* he thought. 

As he unfolded the paper to make sure the inside likewise contained nothing of importance, the star chart made him think of how he could twit the witches about doing horoscopes for fun and profit - but any humour he felt was squelched the moment he started reading the page. After he had done so, he went over it again, slowly, hoping he had somehow managed to misunderstand the words - but he hadn't. 

The list of spell ingredients by itself was chilling. When he and Dru and Darla and Angelus had roamed together, he had often helped Darla with any spells that needed casting - Angelus could never be bothered with magic, and Dru simply couldn't be trusted with it - and as a result, he had a journeyman's knowledge of the art. One or even two of the items listed might pop up in a particularly powerful (and risky) White spell, but all of them together meant something very different. Only the very worst Black magic had need of so many such potent components in a single spell, because the forces being manipulated were not only powerful, but corrupting - and extremely likely to escape the caster's control. 

As impressive as Willow's own power might be, she was still new to the craft - and as history had shown, she was also unfortunately prone to make mistakes that a more experienced practitioner could avoid. And while on the subject of experienced practitioners, Tara couldn't possibly know what her lover was up to - could she? Surely she would never countenance the use of such dark magic! 

Worse than the list of spell components, which only hinted at the purpose of the spell, were the first lines of the invocation written at the bottom of the page. It had obviously been translated or rewritten a few times, but the scrap that was there was enough to reveal what end result the magic was to work towards... 

_Osiris, Lord of the Underworld, we beseech you, hear our plea. One has passed into the Sunless Lands out of turn, her time not yet come. We beg you, o Judge of the Dead, return her to us, return to us the warrior of the people..._

Spike sank back against the headboard, the paper falling into his lap. After a minute, his stunned disbelief gave way to shocked anger, which soon began to work its way to rage. He threw himself from the bed with a snarl, quickly rummaged for his clothes, and began to dress, his mind working furiously all the while. 

Clearly, Willow was at least doing some serious research into bringing Buffy back - but why? What could possibly convince her to do such a thing, when she bloody well knew better? And who else knew of her plans? 

*Either no one, or everyone* he suddenly realized. 

Practically all of them knew how dodgy - and dangerous - resurrection spells were. If Willow had managed to convince herself that she could do it - and convince herself that there was a good reason for her to try - she wouldn't approach the others until she had an argument that could convince them as well. But why was the witch doing this in the first place? 

Finished dressing, he sat down heavily on the bed, and attempted to rein in his temper enough to think clearly. He managed it to a certain extent, and consequently he remembered that there was some evidence at hand that needed a little more examination. Picking up the paper again, he sniffed it carefully, trying to determine if anyone other than Willow had handled it. And as far as he could tell, the answer was no - while the book itself carried a hint of Tara's scent as well as the redhead's, the paper didn't. 

*Red. An' only Red. So she's workin' on 'er own - or at least she _was_...* 

After another minute or so of deliberation, he knew what he had to do. 

*Got to have me a little chat with Red, find out if the others are in on her little scheme or not. They can't know what they're meanin' to do... an' if they _do_ know, I've got to suss out why they think that yanking Buffy out of bloody **Heaven** is all in a good day's work!* 

He checked the clock impatiently. It was early afternoon, so the Summers house would be empty. Dawn was at school, and the witches wouldn't be home until later. Given their class schedule, Willow would be first to arrive today, so he could confront her privately. 

*Good, if she hasn't brought the rest of 'em into it - I can get it all sorted nice, quick an' quiet that way. Bad, 'cos I've half a mind to bloody feed 'er her liver just for _thinking_ about doin' this...* 

Their confrontation would have to wait for an hour or two, but that suited his purposes just fine. There was something that needed doing before he headed for Revello Drive anyway. 

Grabbing his duster, he stuffed the innocent-looking paper in one of its pockets and made his way to the tunnel entrance of the crypt. 

Moving quickly through the underground passages that peppered Sunnydale, he soon reached his destination. Fortunately, the public library's entrance was well shaded by trees, making his dash from the manhole that much easier on his flammable hide. Once inside, he made his way to the desk where he presented his card (set up for him by a grateful librarian who had come close to being a vamp snack some months ago) and in turn received a wireless mouse. 

He moved into the public computer area, and chose a terminal that was off in the corner, where no one could see the monitor screen. Setting the mouse down, he activated the screen, and opened the browser. A scant minute later, he was logged into Hotmail. 

When Giles had let the vampire know how he could be reached, Spike had been more than a little surprised to see that an e-mail address had been included, given how much the human was known to dislike computers. Apparently, he had chosen to make at least a token concession to modernity - likely because it could facilitate communications when there was an eight hour time difference to take into account. 

Swiftly, he typed a message to the Watcher, pausing only to smooth out the paper and run it through the scanner. Then he attached the scanned images to the mail, gave the whole thing a quick once-over to make sure he had left nothing out, and sent it off. Knowing how wounded the other man was, he didn't want to share this burden with Giles, but he had no choice - he'd promised. Plus, the Watcher would be able to find out exactly what spell it was - after all, there was at least a chance that he'd got it wrong, that it wasn't a resurrection spell at all. 

*Yeah* he thought sourly. *Pull the other one.* 

Scowling, he got up and returned the mouse at the desk, then headed for the manhole. There was quite a bit of time before Willow arrived home, and he had to unleash some of his pent-up anger. 

There was bound to be something in the tunnels for him to kill. 


	7. Chapter 6 All for the best

Willow walked home from campus, a spring in her step. She had called the Magic Box after her geology lab was over, and Anya had given her the information she had been longing to hear: the urn of Osiris was on its way to Sunnydale at last. Once that all-important component was secured, they were almost ready. 

*One more check on the spell translation to make sure it's all okay, then all we need to do is wait for Mercury to get in alignment... and kill a baby deer.* 

Her good mood deflated considerably. As soon as that part of the spell had been translated, she had started searching for acceptable substitutions for the fawn's blood. Unfortunately, all of the permissible alternatives ranked just as bad or even worse on the squick-o-meter, so fawn's blood it was. 

*That's what it takes, so that's what it'll be... I just wish it could have been almost anything else. I mean, why isn't a sacrifice ever something kind of oogy, like... like a bat or a snake or something? But then bats are kinda cute... and snakes may not be cuddly, but they're ecologically important...* 

She absently kicked a stone out of her path as she kept walking. 

*None of that really matters - not now. I have to do it for Buffy. If she could die twice to save us all, I can sure as heck kill a baby deer to save her.* 

Though that thought didn't return her good mood, it did serve to strengthen her resolve. She might not be able to change the past, but she could make a darned big improvement to the present. She could _fix_ it, in just a little while. 

*It won't be much longer, I promise - just hold on Buffy, wherever you are.* 

Willow climbed the front steps and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, she slipped off her backpack, sighing in relief as the weight came off her shoulders. Slinging it aside, she closed the door, shutting out the afternoon sun. Turning to walk into the kitchen, she hit a cool, hard chest, and leapt back with a gasp. 

"Afternoon, Red," Spike drawled. 

As she recovered from her fright, she took in the vampire's appearance - his knuckles were skinned, his lip cut, and his clothes dishevelled. Obviously, he had managed to find a fight (or several of them) during the daylight hours, so that meant there was something bothering him. Whenever Spike was wound up about something, he used violence as his medicine. However, when self-medicating with physical mayhem failed to cure his bad moods, he had a tendency to inflict them on anyone who happened to be handy. Usually, that meant he would just be snarkier and surlier than normal, but apparently he'd decided that giving Willow the willies made for a nice change of pace... 

"Spike," the witch sighed in a mixture of relief and annoyance, "I know you like to make sure you can still put the scare on, but I could really do without the heart attack, okay? Mortal here - kinda need a heartbeat. Want to tell me what's wrong?" 

"What makes you think something's wrong, luv?" he asked winningly. 

"Oh, I don't know - the fact you that you've spent the afternoon hitting things, which you practically never do during the day unless you're upset, the fact that you're acting like a doofus for no apparent reason, and while the time of day thing doesn't apply to doofus-ness, ditto otherwise - call it a guess. So what's up?" 

"With me? Not a bloody thing." 

"Good. Think you can save your bad mood for patrol tonight? There's a couple of Fyarl demons that have been spotted near..." 

"I am bloody curious as to what's up with you though," he interrupted brightly. 

"Right now, my temper," Willow replied, exasperated. "Look: if you want to tell me what's wrong, fine, I'll see what I can do to help. If you don't want to tell me what's wrong, that's fine too - just keep it to yourself and quit being such a poophead. You're starting to piss me off." 

"Right - wouldn't want to do that, would I? Wouldn't be smart, seein' as you went one-on-one with a bloody Hellgoddess, an' look who's not here. Only a bleedin' idiot would go out of his way to get on the shit list of a witch what has the kind of power you do," he said, pausing. "So I apologize, Red. You're right, I've been a tosser. An' I know just what I can do to make it up to you." 

"Oh, the suspense," Willow muttered, pinching her nose. 

"As happens, what I've got in mind benefits both of us." Spike's tone was earnest, but it changed when he continued to speak, gradually becoming venomous. "See, I know where there's some deer just outside town. I'll just nip up there tonight, cut a young one from the herd, snap its neck, an' drain the blood for you. You get your fawn's blood, I get to exercise me predatory instincts, an' I'll even promise not to sample the goods." 

Willow could only gape in shock. Just in case Spike or Dawn ever discovered their plans, at one point she had actually roughed out an explanation in advance, though she had been certain it would never be needed. However, surprise had apparently caused the connection between her brain and her mouth to short out, leaving her unable to utter a single word of it. _And it was a good one, too._ She had been so sure their plans would remain undetected... 

"'Course, I don't know if there's some ritual what needs doin' during the bloodletting," Spike mused thoughtfully, "but not to worry, Red. I've done a few in my time. Jus' tell me which one you need, an' I can handle that too. You won't have to sully your lily-white hands with Bambi blood." 

By this point, the redhead had started to recover, her thoughts rapidly congealing into a logical order again. The first thing she had to do was find out exactly how much the vampire actually knew, without giving anything further away. 

"H-how did you know I might need some fawn's blood?" Willow managed at last. 

Spike pulled out a sheet of paper from his duster pocket, and shook it out with a flourish. Menacingly, he stalked forward and held it in front of her nose. 

"Same way I know you need these other little trinkets. Might want to be a bit more careful with your bookmarks, luv," he hissed, his eyes flashing gold. "Now do you want to tell me just what in **hell** you're playing at?" 

"Playing? Is that what you think I'm doing?" she demanded shrilly, snatching the paper from him, even as her eyes frantically raked over the words she had written on it. _Oh poop... this doesn't leave much to the imagination. Now what?_

"You tell me," he snarled. 

Willow took a steadying breath before answering him, trying to rein in her emotions.They hadn't wanted the vampire to find out at all, much less find out like this, but now that he knew... maybe she could get him on board with the plan. It was what Tara had suggested at the beginning, and maybe she had been right all along. _Time to find out..._

"I'm not big into games, Spike. And this," she said as she clutched the paper, "is no game. I know what I'm doing. Fine - you know some magic, so I don't have to tell you what this is for, do I?" 

"Depends if I'm right, doesn't it? Can you stand there an' tell me that the makings of the mojo on that page aren't for a sodding resurrection spell? CAN YOU?!" 

"NO!" 

The rage that transformed his face was terrible, and for a moment, Willow thought that chip or not, he was going to strike her. But instead, he roared. The noise was deafening, full of anger and bitter heartbreak, and once it was over, Spike slumped back against the wall. The witch regarded him warily, defensive spells at the ready, just in case a more violent outburst was forthcoming. He made no move toward her, however; he simply clenched his fists and slowly pressed them to his sides. Finally, he spoke. 

"Why, Red? Why are you lookin' to do this to her?" 

"I'm not doing anything except saving her!" 

"Saving her," Spike repeated flatly. 

"Yes, saving her! First of all, this spell? Not what you think. No zombification, no golem-izing, no undead-thing-that-only-looks-like-Buffy ickiness - this spell is the real deal. It brings back the person, body and soul intact. If I wasn't absolutely positive it did, do you think there's any way I'd even think about trying it? She was my best friend! If I had even the slightest doubt about the spell, I'd drop it in a hot second, and find another way to save her!" 

"Save her from what, exactly?! She's dead, remember? It's not like there's a worry some beastie's gonna make 'er any deader!" 

"You don't understand!" 

"So make me! Make me understand why you want to take 'er from the only peace she's ever known since she was bloody fifteen!" 

"I don't! And I wouldn't! I'm doing this because she's not at peace, Spike! She's **not**_. _Yes, her body's here, and it's dead enough - but her soul isn't here, it's in whatever hell dimension Glory called home! And I don't know about you, but I'm not going to just leave her there to suffer! Not when there's something I can do to get her out!" 

The vampire stared at the witch in stupefaction, but eventually he managed to find his voice again. 

"Good speech, luv - very stirring. Convincing too, I've no doubt," he said acidly. "One tiny flaw with the plan, though - you're **wrong**. She's nowhere bloody near a hell dimension, try goin' in the opposite direction!" 

"And you would know this how, Mr. 'I'm evil, remember'? You saw her close the portal - how do you know she's not wherever it went to?!" 

"I know," Spike said, enunciating every word, "because I'm **dead**, remember? Yes, I saw 'er close the portal, just like you did - but you didn't see what happened after, 'cos you couldn't! I could - an' I did!" 

"Fine," Willow said, crossing her arms. "So tell me what it was you saw - assuming whatever it was wasn't the result of cracking your skull after a twenty-storey fall." 

Spike glared at her. 

"It was while you lot were standin' around 'er body," he began stonily. "I'd just managed to get up, and I'd started to walk over. I'd seen the whole thing, I knew she was gone... knew what you were all gatherin' around was a corpse. But I couldn't see from where I was... an' I had to see. Hadn't gotten very far before I saw somethin' right enough, but it wasn't her body - it was her." 

"Are you saying you saw Buffy's ghost?" Willow asked in disbelief. 

"Not her ghost," Spike said quietly. "Though I suppose that's what she would've become if she'd stayed." 

"What do you mean, 'if she stayed'? Where did she go?" 

"Where she had to go." 

"Which is to say you don't know where she is!" 

"Which is to say I saw who picked 'er up while you lot were standin' there!" 

"Someone took her away? Was it one of the things from the portal?" Willow demanded. "Why didn't you try to stop them?!" 

Spike closed his eyes, took a deep, superfluous breath, and tried to count to ten. It worked better than it usually did - he almost made it to six before his mouth got the better of what remained of his patience. 

"You know," he said slowly, his voice carefully measured, "for a powerful witch, and a walking brain, sometimes you can be so bloody thick it staggers me. Who do you think picks you up when you die, Red? Want to tell me how I could stop Death herself?" 

"Wh... death?" Willow said, puzzled. She knew the different gods and goddesses of death of many different pantheons - heck, in a couple of weeks, they were going to appeal to one of them - but she had never thought of death as an independent entity. _Apart from the clinical definition of no heartbeat, no spontaneous respiration, and no brain activity, that is._

"Death," Spike repeated. "Of the Endless. One of the Seven. Sister to Dream. Speaks to mortals when they're born, an' picks 'em up when they die. Guides 'em to what lies beyond their mortal years. Presides over the Sunless Lands you make mention of in your invocation. Ringing any bells?" Spike asked sarcastically. 

"Are you saying 'death' is an actual person?" 

"I'm not sure she's... look, can we get into a bloody philosophical debate some other time? Whatever she is, it's neither here nor there at the moment," he said, impatient. "Fact is, I saw Buffy go with her..." 

"And how do you know that who - or what - took Buffy is who you think it was?" Willow interrupted. 

"A chap tends to remember the one what takes 'is hand while he dies - especially if the one killing 'im at the time can't see anyone there," he snapped. "I bloody well met the chit when I shuffled off the mortal coil, I remember what she looks like!" 

"Okay, let's say that you're right, that Death," Willow said, making quotation marks with her fingers as she said the word, "took Buffy, just like you said. That still doesn't mean anything - it just means that Buffy's dead, it doesn't tell us where she is." 

"Bloody hell, woman, would you listen to yourself?" Spike cried in exasperation. "I told you, Death comes for you when you die, an' then she brings you to your bloody afterlife - that's her job! Buffy's where she belongs now - and it sure as hell **isn't** wherever the late, unlamented Bitchgoddess of Skank was headed!" 

"And how do you know? Death, or whoever, could have taken her anyplace, how do you know she's not in hell?" 

"BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL ASKED! DID YOU?!" 

Spike's shout rang from the walls, and Willow's reaction - shrinking back, mouth gaping as she seemed to be trying deliver an answer her brain didn't have available at the moment - confirmed what he had already suspected. 

"You didn't, did you?" he asked, his voice soft, dangerous. 

"Who was I supposed to ask?" she blustered. "Being alive, I'm not really privy to the whole conversation-with-Death thing you say you had!" 

The vampire's temper was very close to slipping its leash once again, part of his mind wondering if he broke her neck quickly enough, maybe the pain from the chip wouldn't be so bad - like ripping off a band-aid, instead of picking at it... _Bit wouldn't like it, though, _he told himself._ Or Tara. Or the Whelp, not that I give a toss about him. But she was Buffy's friend. Buffy wouldn't want me to - an' anyway, we need her,_ he grudgingly admitted. 

"Ever hear of an ouija board? Or a bloody seance?" he asked, scornfully. "Batty old biddies whose only links to witchcraft are a predilection for cats and an herb garden have managed to contact the great beyond - you tellin' me you couldn't handle it?" 

Willow's face flushed, in an equal mixture of anger and embarrassment - neither had occurred to her. _And why should they have?_ she thought furiously. They had all seen Buffy go through the portal. They knew Glory had opened it to go home, and they knew it was a hell-dimension she was headed for. Ergo, Buffy was in hell. What was there to learn by trying to contact her spirit, apart from how badly she was suffering there? _He's wrong. He has to be... even Anya said I was right. Heck, if Anya and I agree on something, there's no way it can't be true._

"I think you have a pretty good idea of what I can handle, Spike," she said, her voice tight. "I didn't do those things because there wasn't any need for it. Buffy went through a portal and her soul went into a hell dimension." 

"You _thought_ Buffy's soul went into a hell dimension," he growled. "Like I just told you, it didn't, an' I have it on the bloody authority of the one most likely to know. But if you still don't believe me, an' want to find out for certain, we can do it right now. Don't know if you or Glinda keep an ouija board about, but a seance is easy enough... an' you've likely got spells that can do the job just as well. So what's it gonna be?" 

"Right now, nothing," Willow said resentfully. "Dawn will be home in a little while, and..." 

"You didn't get the Nibblet involved in this, did you?" Spike interrupted harshly. 

"Of course not!" 

"She doesn't know anything about it at all?" he pressed. 

"What do you take me for?" Willow said, indignant. "Did you think I'd just skip up to her and say 'Guess what Dawnie? Buffy didn't just die for you, she's suffering too, but not to worry, it'll just be months before we can rescue her'? She has enough to deal with!" 

"Well, well, well - we agree on something," Spike said with mock surprise. "And unless you've started putting on royal airs, that 'we' means you brought the rest of the Scoobies in on this bloody scheme, didn't you?" Willow's response, which consisted of crossing her arms and glaring sullenly at him, was all the confirmation he needed. _Just bloody wonderful... but this time I'm comin' through for you, Slayer,_ he thought. _Couldn't save you before, love, but I can save you now. You've earned your peace, an' I'm not letting 'em take that from you too._ "Fine then," he growled. "All of you, tonight, my crypt, we're having an après-slay meeting - it's time to nip this bloody farce in the bud. Bring whatever it is you think you'll need to do the job, and we'll find out where the Slayer really is." 

"Fine," Willow said tightly. 

Spike nodded firmly, then went into the living room to wait for Dawn. He was just settling onto the couch when Willow's eyes turned dark, and she whispered a single word. 

"Sleep."   


*************************   


  


"Spike?" 

The voice startled him into wakefulness, and the vampire blearily took in his surroundings. He was sprawled on the Summers sofa, and he couldn't remember what he was doing there - but then it came back to him. He'd wanted to tell Red not to worry about the Fyarl sighting, as he'd killed them both. Bloody brilliant fight that had been too, though it had knackered him to the point of falling asleep on the job... 

"Spike? Are you OK?" 

"Fine, Red," he replied, yawning as he slowly sat up. "Just a bit tired is all. Took care of a couple of Fyarl in the sewers - won't have to worry about 'em tonight. Didn't miss the Nibblet did I?" 

"No, Dawn's not home yet. Did you want some blood or something? You look like you could use a pint." 

"Don't mind if I do - thanks, luv." 

As Willow went to warm some blood in the microwave, she flushed in a combination of relief, guilt and triumph. _It worked - witch-fu saves the day!_ The spell was a simple one, tied to the very paper that in her carelessness, had given her away. Spike no longer had any memory of anything regarding the spell - all she had to do now was make sure he never laid eyes on that paper again, and he would never be the wiser. 

She hadn't wanted to take this step, but it wasn't as if she'd had a choice. The vampire had been so deep in denial-land that he'd been willing to take what could only have been a concussion-induced hallucination over her conclusions - conclusions which were based on logic, rather than blunt trauma to the head. 

She thought she was right, Tara thought she was right, Xander thought she was right, even _Anya_ thought she was right. Spike had meant well - she'd give him that much, and how weird was it for a vampire to be meaning well? - but he _wasn't_ right. 

Judging from his reaction, getting him to see reason would have been impossible. When Spike made up his mind about something, it was no use arguing with him, and he'd been adamant that Buffy wasn't in Hell at all. 

*Desperate to keep his fantasy going - he just can't deal with the truth* she thought sadly. 

She was hardly unsympathetic. She had seen how deeply Buffy's death had affected the vampire - heck, after Buffy died, she had been the one to suggest they keep an eye on him in case he decided to try getting a tan - and how he blamed himself for what had happened. She had gone through that herself at the same time, for heaven's sake. However, she had been able to move past it - her emotions hadn't prevented her from being able to look at things analytically. Spike obviously hadn't gotten to the point where he could do that. If he had, he would have looked that the facts and come to the same conclusion that she had - Buffy was in trouble, and this time, they could save her. 

Instead, his grief had blinded him to reason, and she had found herself forced to take action. If she hadn't, he would have tried to stop them somehow, and as a result, Buffy could have been trapped forever. Adjusting the vampire's memory was the easiest and least painful method of making sure he wouldn't interfere. 

Interference could take many different forms, however; that was why she had already decided not to let the others know about Spike's allegations, or what she had done in response to them. Spike's insistence that Buffy didn't need saving - _what I wouldn't give for that to be true!_ - only would have caused them to doubt themselves, and that was the last thing they needed. Doubt would divide them, and now was the time they all needed to pull together. 

*We're only going to have one shot at this - we have to make it count. If we screw up, Buffy's stuck where she is forever. We need to focus, and we can't let anything get in the way.* 

On that thought, the microwave beeped. Willow took out the mug and started for the living room - but the pricking of her conscience caused her to make a small detour. Setting the mug down, she stopped at the refrigerator, where a quick hunt turned up the remains of Giles' stash of imported pale ale. _Not cookies, but it'll do._ Snagging a bottle, she closed the refrigerator, retrieved the mug and brought both to the vampire. 

"Here you go," she said, setting the bottle on the end table as she handed him the blood. 

"What's this? Special occasion?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the beer. 

"You looked like you needed it," she said with a small smile. "Killing a couple of Fyarls should qualify anyone for Miller time - or Fuller time, as the case may be." 

"Fair enough - ta, Red." 

Taking a long draught of the blood, he put his feet up on the coffee table, and reached for the remote as Willow went back to the kitchen. 

She heard the television come to life as she started getting dinner ready. _Just like every other night,_ she reflected, pleased with herself, _when it could have been so different. And it **will** be different - but in a good way - in less than two weeks._

Everything was going to work out for the best - she was going to make sure of it. 

Nothing could stop them now.   


************************* 

  


An ocean away, Rupert Giles lay awake in bed, thinking. 

*This was a good idea* 

It had taken him over three months to start coming to terms with Buffy's death, and he doubted he would have begun the process at all had he not relocated to England. Immediately after his arrival, he had been too caught up in mundane matters to grieve at first. The necessity of finding a flat, moving his belongings and setting up house had been just enough to keep his mind off his loss - for a time at least. 

Giles had barely finished moving in when he found Quentin Travers himself at his door. The man had come to offer the Council's condolences personally, and given the bad blood between them, Giles had to give him credit for taking that step. He'd accepted Travers' sympathy as graciously as he could manage, and stoically agreed to come before the Council to give his final report in a week's time. What he hadn't expected was the appointment card Travers had handed him for the counsellor, with the assurance that the Council would foot the bill... 

_"We never saw eye to eye, Rupert, but in your way, you and Miss Summers worked as tirelessly for the cause as any Watcher and Slayer must. Despite your... estrangement from the Council, we have not forgotten that fact. You know Dr. Brownthwaite - he's agreed to see you whenever and as often as you might require. I would urge you to make use of his services. I would also like to say that I can understand how close you were to Buffy, but we both know that it would be a lie."_

_He'd given Quentin a sharp look, and the man simply gave a small smile as he continued._

_"I daresay if I could, we might never have been at loggerheads in the first place." Travers' expression became solemn, and there was - surprisingly enough - real compassion in his eyes as he extended his hand. "She was an extraordinary young woman, Rupert. I'm so very sorry for your loss."_

The counselling sessions had been a great help, and with time, his recovery began. The surroundings had helped - the beauty and antiquity of the Bath scenery were soothing to his mind and heart. The ruins put him in mind of Slayers of long ago, who had fought and died to ensure that there would continue to be people and civilizations to create such monuments. Such thoughts reminded him that ultimately, a Slayer's legacy - Buffy's legacy -was the world and everything in it. 

With that reminder, he realized that while she was gone, every day - every blessed moment - was a gift from her, to make of it what he would. 

He would honour that gift. 

He would live. 

A soft kiss was pressed between his shoulder blades, and he turned over with a smile. Olivia reclined on her side, palm under her chin, and a self-satisfied look on her face. 

"So," she said, eyes sparkling, "have I convinced you of the many charms of a Cotswolds bed-and-breakfast holiday?" 

"That would entail some comparison studies, " he said, looking thoughtful. "It occurs to me that had I embarked on this holiday in my own company, instead of in yours, the charms in question would have been considerably diminished." 

"Ever the gallant, Rupert," she smiled. 

"One tries. The equally true answer to your question," he said, taking her in his arms, "is yes, you have convinced me, and I accede to your superior wisdom - a fortnight in the country with no distractions is exactly what I needed." 

"Good answer," she breathed, and moved to kiss him... 

They made love again, and later, as he watched Olivia fall asleep, he thought to himself... 

*This was a very good idea* 


	8. Chapter 7 Of Hell and heroes, ice cream ...

"That's it?" Xander asked hesitantly. 

The plain-looking stone vessel resting among styrofoam packing peanuts in the box on top of the counter certainly didn't look like anything special. Sure it had some little hieroglyph thingies incised on its sides, but 'mystically powerful arcane relic!' didn't exactly leap to mind when you looked at it - 'Aunt Flora's old geranium planter' was more like it. Then again, he'd learned over the years that things - or people - with power didn't necessarily look the part. Buffy certainly hadn't... 

He swallowed, fighting back the crushing sense of emptiness that came part and parcel with musing on a Buffster-free world. _Damn... after all this time, I thought I was over the whole lump-in-the-throat thing._

"Yup," Anya said happily. "I had it authenticated - Hallie even managed to track down Hazar to double-check for me. He was really a dear about it, too - it turns out my dumping him really turned him around. Do you know he said that if it wasn't for me, he never would have straightened himself out enough to get Thazia to give him the time of day? We're invited to their 700th anniversary party, by the way, so we'll have to keep the third weekend in April free." 

Xander gulped again, but this time the action had nothing to do with grief - he'd already met some of Anya's friends and co-workers from her vengeance days, and the prospect of meeting more of them was daunting. There was something about socializing with people -okay, not people_,_ beings - able to disintegrate you on a whim that was more than a little off-putting. 

"I'll try, but you know how work picks up in the spring," he said, thinking quickly. "Money to be made and all. But still, we should always make time for friends." 

"True," Anya said with a frown, conscience clearly torn between free enterprise and good breeding. The two fought for dominance, but after Anya factored in possible overtime, the battle was won. "Well, if your work schedule is tight, I could go by myself - after all, friendship is about compromise," she mused. "I think they'd understand. And anyway, we can add them to our guest list, so they won't feel slighted." 

"Guest list?" he repeated, puzzled. 

"For our wedding," Anya said patiently. "We should really set a date soon if we want to book a decent hall for the reception, not to mention a romantic destination for our honeymoon. Ambiance is a contributing factor to superior orgasms, and is much easier to maintain when you have reservations at a nice hotel with room service. The reason I never brought this up before is that according to human customs, you shouldn't celebrate any festive occasions after a death unless you first observe a mourning period - the time varies, but I think six months is considered appropriate. Buffy's only been dead for a bit under five, but seeing as she won't be dead anymore in a few days, it seems kind of pointless to put it off any longer." 

Xander could only stare, as his brain had frozen after the phrase 'our wedding'. He had proposed before the last apocalypse, and he'd meant it, too, but he'd sure never thought about any of the details. _Like exactly when we would get married. _At the time, the main concern was survival, and after that... well, he'd just assumed that when they felt the time was right, they'd go to a JP or something. _Or something. Why, why do I always forget what happens when I assume?_

"You're right, Ahn," he said at last. "We should set a date. And talk about what kind of wedding we want, and make a guest list, and... God, do a whole lot of wedding-related things I never even knew existed. But I think we should wait until _after_, you know?" 

"After Buffy's alive again you mean?" she asked, cleaning up some of the packing material. "That makes sense - we'll all have to get used to her not being dead anymore, not to mention it'll probably take some time for her to readjust to this world. Once things settle down, we'll send out our announcements and start looking at halls. Buffy will be in the wedding party of course - remind me to check for her dress size..." 

"Ahn," Xander said, interrupting the wedding talk before she could begin on floral arrangements, "what exactly do you mean about it taking time for her to readjust to this world?" 

"Hmm? Just what I said - sudden dimensional changes can be pretty hairy, you know, even if the dimension in question isn't all that bad." 

"I'm thinking Hell is pretty far up there on the badness scale." 

"Depends on the one you're talking about," Anya said. "Some of them aren't - like the one where litterbugs are punished. There, they just have to pick up trash and trip over things that have been left around - it can be a little revolting, what with all the chewed gum everywhere, but it's more annoying than anything else." She frowned. "I wonder which Hell Buffy's in? I don't think Willow ever really specified." 

Anya went back to her cleaning with a small shrug. Finding out which dimension Buffy's soul happened to be in was quite a simple thing to do. People with no magical ability to speak of could do it easily enough with the help of a half-decent medium. A witch of Willow's power (even a witch as careless as Willow could be) would be able to do it in her sleep. Once she'd figured out that Buffy was in Hell, Willow probably just hadn't bothered to find out which one it was. Like most mortals, the witch lacked an appreciation for the differences between the infernal dimensions. _They think you've seen one Hell, you've seen them all,_ Anya thought with a disdainful sniff. 

"Wouldn't the portal have just gone to the one Glory wanted?" Xander asked. 

"Probably - but not necessarily," Anya said. "The problem was that Dawn's blood opened the walls to all dimensions, remember? There was probably a ritual used to set a primary focus on the dimension where Glory was headed, but all the others would still be there. So Glory's dimension is just the place Buffy's most likely to be - that's not to say it's where she actually ended up." 

"Oh," Xander said, digesting that information. It gave him a sudden worry - what if the spell needed some kind of interdimensional version of a GPS to get a fix on Buffy? What if they had to know exactly where her soul was? _Willow must have checked it out though,_ he thought, trying to reassure himself. _When it comes to fact-checking, Wills is the poster child of anal retention. Even in third grade, she wouldn't start a project unless she had her cross-reference colour codes set up in advance. But still..._

"Does the exact place where Buffy is now actually matter? To the spell, I mean?" he asked. 

"Not at all," Anya said firmly, and he relaxed at her reply. "Mind you," she added consideringly, "if we knew exactly where she is when we do the spell, we might be able to take some steps to help her with the dimension change." 

"Help? How?" 

"Well, say she's been in the world without shrimp all this time - she might have a craving for some, and we could have it handy." 

Xander reined in the sarcastic comment that leapt to mind, and concentrated not on how stupid her words sounded, but on what they indicated about his fiancée. Anya still had issues with empathy, sympathy and compassion - they weren't exactly required character traits for existence as a vengeance demon, and Anya had been one for over eleven hundred years. Two years of enforced humanity was nowhere near enough time to expect a sensitivity renaissance from her, but what Anya had said was a clear indicator of how far she had come. She was actually showing consideration for a non-Xander person - a female non-Xander person, to whom he'd always been attracted, no less. _She's come a long way, baby._ He smiled, reached out, and squeezed her hand. 

"Good thought, honey - but if Buffy's been chez Glory instead of the world without shrimp, I don't think shellfish will be the answer," he said gently, as he released her fingers. 

"It was just an example," Anya said, pouting slightly. "I guess it doesn't really matter anyway," she shrugged. "If she's been in one of the nastier dimensions, like Quor-Toth, there's probably not much we can do to help. Though we might have some tranquillizer guns or calming spells ready in case she attacks us in reflex." 

"It's that bad?" Xander blurted. 

Anya met his gaze, and he shivered. Though she looked no older than he did, there were times when he could see every year of her eleven centuries reflected in her eyes. 

"None of you have any idea of what bad really is. Buffy made sure you never had to find out... that's why you and Willow and everyone helped Buffy for all those years isn't it?" she asked sharply, her face alight with sudden understanding. "That's why we're doing what we've been doing - to make sure no one ever has to find out..." her voice trailed off in wonder, and Xander nodded, puzzled at Anya's reaction. 

"Yeah - that, and the whole we-get-to-live-for-another-day thing..." 

"We're heroes, aren't we?" she asked in a hushed voice. "I've never been one before... I thought I was, when I was a demon, but I wasn't - not really." She looked stricken, as if a horrible truth had suddenly sprung upon her, and Xander could only watch perplexed as he tried to divine exactly to what revelation she seemed to have come. "I mean, sure, I avenged as many wronged women as I could... but vengeance isn't really heroic, is it? It makes you feel better for a while, but it doesn't change what happened... and it doesn't stop what happened from happening again. And that's what we're doing - we're trying to make it stop." 

_Oh, Anya... _Colour it another case of Xander Harris ignoring the obvious, but he really should have known better than to underestimate her - Anya never did anything by halves. _One sensitivity renaissance, coming up. _"That's right, Ahn," he said, taking her into his arms, "we try to make the bad things stop. We can't stop them all, but we stop the ones we can." 

"Then we are heroes..." 

"I think we're just people trying to do the right thing. Buffy was the hero," he said sadly. 

Anya leaned back to meet his eyes without breaking their embrace. "And Buffy was just a girl." 

"Buffy was a Slayer..." 

"And what's a Slayer, but a normal girl with super-normal power?" Anya demanded. "She was just a person trying to do the right thing too - it's just that her powers gave her an edge to get things done. If you ask me, I'd say we're as heroic as she is, even if we aren't dead." 

Not for the first time, he was reminded of Buffy's final message to them.He'd thought he'd got it that morning, as Dawn had repeated her sister's words to them at the base of the tower - _'the hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it' _- but he hadn't. It took Anya's epiphany today to trigger his own. 

It was the easiest thing in the world to assume superpowers or incredible courage were what made a hero - but there were different types of power, and different types of courage. And sometimes ordinary people who were just trying to do the right thing every day, no matter how hard it was, were the biggest heroes of all. 

"You know, Ahn," he said, pulling her back to him, "Somehow I think if Buffy was here, she'd say the same thing." 

"Well, I guess we'll know for sure in a day or two. Remind me to ask her," Anya said, cuddling into his shoulder. 

Xander smiled as he hugged her tight. 

"I'll do that." 

* * *

Tara had always loved ice cream. 

When she was a child and her mother was still alive, on rare occasions they would have to run an errand that would take them into town. As compensation for having to get up even earlier than usual to catch the bus at the end of the road, her mother always made sure that after the bills were paid or the shopping was done, there was enough money left over for a stop at Gregson's. 

Gregson's was the sort of old-fashioned ice cream parlour that you just couldn't find anymore. They didn't just make their own ice creams and sauces, they still served sodas, frappés and flips in every possible flavour, not to mention real chocolate and vanilla malts - Gregson's was the one thing that Tara missed about her hometown. Sunnydale's Baskin-Robbins outlet couldn't hope to compare, but whenever she felt like a treat, ice cream was still the first thing that came to her mind. So when she and Dawn had gone to take in a movie, Tara suggested that rather than snack on popcorn in the theatre, they could have ice cream after the show instead. Dawn had been more than agreeable to the suggestion, and once they picked up their orders (Dawn had a lavishly chocolate-themed banana split, while Tara made do with a large blueberry milkshake - the closest thing to a Gregson's Catawba Flip she was likely to find on the menu), they settled at one of the small tables in the store to indulge. 

"I don't know how you're ever going to get to sleep tonight," Tara said, shaking her head as she watched Dawn dig into the mountain of caffeine and sugar on her plate. 

"I'll sleep just fine, _Mom_," Dawn said, rolling her eyes. "And if I don't, it's not like it's a school night." She took a defiant spoonful of ice cream and crammed it into her mouth, closing her eyes reverently as she entered chocolate nirvana. "God, this is good," she muttered around the melting dessert. "Thanks, Tara." 

"You're welcome," she smiled and took a sip of her milkshake - it was good, but Gregson's it wasn't. She gave a small sigh, and took another sip. 

"Something wrong with your 'shake?" 

"Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine." 

"So what's with the sigh of disappointment?" 

"It just made me think of a place I miss from my hometown, that's all." 

"I didn't think there was anything to be missed about that place." 

"Well, there was one thing," Tara said, and proceeded to tell Dawn about Gregson's, and especially her memories of trips there with her mother. 

"We never really had anything like that with Mom," Dawn said, once Tara had finished speaking. "I mean, when we all hit the malls for something or other, we'd grab a treat at the food court every now and then - but we didn't really have a place that was 'ours' like that, you know?" Dawn paused for a moment. "I guess if there was a real mother-daughter ritual thingy we had, it was Mom making hot chocolate for us. Scrape your knee? Hot chocolate. Bad day? Hot chocolate. Get your feelings hurt? Hot chocolate." She smiled fondly. "If I hadn't already been in shock after I found out I wasn't always a person, when Mom offered me soup instead of hot chocolate, it would've been enough to send me there. I miss her." 

"I know." 

The conversation stopped for a time as Dawn went to work on her chocolate fudge, chocolate peanut butter and chocolate toffee banana split before it could melt, and Tara sipped her milkshake. 

"Do you ever think about going back home?" Dawn asked. 

"Sunnydale is home - it has been for a long time now. But yes, I do think about going back to my hometown every so often - and not just because of the ice cream," Tara said, her voice becoming wistful. "I'd really like to go back with Willow someday, and visit my Mom's grave - my grandma's too. They never had a chance to meet her, and well... it'd make me feel like they'd at least been introduced, you know?" 

"Yeah... it's kinda like how I wish Mom and Buffy could be around for my first date, stuff like that." Dawn looked up, her eyes pained. "Does it ever get any better? I mean, it's been months, and I'm dealing, but I just get so _tired_ of dealing sometimes... and I don't want to take it out on anyone, so I try to suck it up, and that's not really working, either..." 

Tara reached across the table, and laid her hand on Dawn's shoulder. 

"I won't lie to you, sweetie - it never really gets better. What it does get is easier, but that takes time. And until time kicks in, the only thing you can do is deal, any way and any how you can." 

Dawn gave a strained laugh. 

"Guess it'll just have to be ice cream therapy in the meantime." 

"It doesn't hurt. And your Mom was right - hot chocolate helps too," Tara said. 

"So did soup," Dawn smiled weakly. 

"Maybe not altogether, though," Tara said, deadpan. 

"Ewwww..." 

With that expression of disgust, Dawn resumed her attack on the remains of her banana split. _She's so strong, so special,_ Tara thought, _and she just doesn't realize it._ Dawn may have looked to her for understanding as she too had lost a mother, but to lose what Dawn had lost, and to keep going... Tara couldn't comprehend it. She wasn't sure anyone could. Dawn was hardly the first person in the world to lose what amounted to her entire family, but few of those who had suffered such a loss were also encumbered with doubts of their own existence. _I'd say if all she did after finding out she wasn't always a person was to cut herself that one time to see if she was real, she's more well-adjusted than all of the other kids in Doris Kroger's case load._

The witch finished her milkshake at about the same time Dawn finished her ice cream, and together they strolled out onto Sunnydale's main drag. As night had fallen, they made sure to keep to the well-populated and well-lit areas as they made their way home. Between the group's patrols and Spike's patrols (with and without the Buffybot), the town's more unsavoury night life was pretty much under control, but it always paid to be careful. 

"Tara?" 

"Yes?" 

"Do... do you ever wonder about death?" 

"Sometimes," she said carefully. "I think everyone does every now and again. Why do you ask - is there something specific you were wondering about?" 

"Yeah, actually... Spike told me something once, when I was wondering what it - dying - was like." Dawn paused, gathering herself, before she blurted out her question. "He said that Death is a person, or okay, not a person, but _like_ a person anyway - and that she holds your hand and talks to you when you die. Do you think it's true?" 

Dawn watched her intently, waiting for her answer, but Tara was momentarily held speechless by a sense of déjà-vu. It was only a week ago that Willow had asked her a number of similar questions about the nature of death while they were working on the resurrection spell. 

Tara had wondered about her lover's curiosity at the time, as once Willow knew the mechanics of a spell, she usually didn't tend to examine the... well, philosophical or ethical repercussions of it too closely. All too often for Tara's peace of mind, Willow saw magic as simply a means to an end, like a science experiment. She hadn't yet fully comprehended that like a science experiment, failure to define all your variables properly - or to plan for and safeguard against possible mistakes - could result in disaster. S_he's getting better though - she's starting to understand,_ Tara thought to herself._ She actually asked some of the right questions this time._

With the teenager's question now, Tara wondered anxiously if Dawn had overheard them, or if she had really talked to Spike as she had claimed. _No, she couldn't have eavesdropped on us_, Tara realized, relieved. _She was at Janice's sleepover that night - plus if she **had** overheard anything, she would have confronted us then..._

"Well, compared to Spike, I can't say for certain, not having... been there... myself," Tara said, "but what he told you tallies with what I do know." 

"So... what is it that you know?" 

"Okay, I wouldn't say I _know_ it, but it's stuff that my grandma told me after my mom died. She'd caught me... about to do what you were going to do after your mom died." 

"You were gonna try to bring her back?" Dawn asked. 

"Yeah," Tara breathed. "I'm not sure what you remember about my folks, but... Mom and Grandma were the only ones who made living there bearable. Grandma was dying already - we'd found out about a year before - and with Mom gone... I just didn't think I had anything to hold onto anymore, you know?" Dawn nodded, and the witch continued, her voice trailing off as she remembered. "I don't know how she knew, but she'd figured it out, and she was waiting for me at the grave..." 

_"I'm not going to ask you what you're doing," her grandmother's voice startled her in the darkness, "because I reckon I know that as well as you do."_

_"Grandma?! What are... I mean I'm..." she stammered._

_Slowly, the older woman stepped toward her, grimacing. Between the arthritis, the damn cancer, and the knowledge of what her baby's baby was thinking to do, there was too much pain for her to ignore. She held out her arm._

_"Give an old woman a hand, sweetheart." Tara quickly took her grandmother's arm, supporting some of her weight. The older woman indicated the bench near the pathway, and the two made their way there. "Sit with me." Tara complied, and her grandmother took a deep breath before speaking._

_"If it worked the way you think it's going to work, baby girl, I'd have done it already myself," she said gently. "But it don't. Grave dirt, a bit of your blood, and the other bibs and bobs you've got there will bring something back, all right. But it won't be your Mama, and it won't be my daughter."_

_"But... but the spell said..."_

_"I know damn well what that spell says," her grandmother hissed. "And I also know that with magic, what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. There's always a price. If you learned nothing else from me and your Mama, I hope you learned at least that! Do you really think that a bit of blood and dirt is a big enough price for a life?"_

_Tara tearfully shook her head. "No! But... with Mom gone, and you... it's not right! It's not fair!" She broke down, sobbing, and her grandmother held her close, rubbing Tara's back until her tears slowed._

_"You're only half-right, child," she soothed. "It's not fair, sure - but it's not unfair either. Just like it's not right, and it's not wrong - it just is. Now sit yourself up, and let me tell you something else."_

_Tara did as she was told, still sniffling, and looked at her grandmother expectantly._

_"You've got your Pa talking scripture at you often enough," she said with an exasperated shake of her head, "so I'm not going to go on about the third Ecclesiastes. We both know that the words are true, but they can still ring damn hollow when it's one of your own that's reached the time to die - or at least they can when you don't really understand Death."_

_"W... what do you mean?"_

_"People are always afraid of Death, because she marks an end to what they know. What people forget is that there's always things that you don't know - and it's just as natural to die as it is to be born. You've heard that the angel of Death comes to collect you when it's your time to leave this world - did you know that she's there when you come into it too? Life is a circle, baby girl, and a circle always comes around. Now listen, and I'll tell you more..."_

Tara had learned many things from her grandmother that night - a little about Death, and a lot about life - and the long hours of talking had marked the beginning of her recovery from the loss of her mother. 

"... needless to say, she stopped me." Tara said, finally finishing her sentence as she came back to herself. "Anyway, after she calmed me down, we ended up talking all night - mostly about dying, but about other things too. She always referred to Death as a person - a girl - and said that she wasn't scary so much as, well... necessary." 

Dawn looked at her quizzically, and Tara elaborated. 

"Like, she's doing a job that needs to be done, and she cares about the people she meets while she's doing it. If Spike says the same, then I'd say it must be true. Did you think he was lying to you?" 

"No! Well... maybe not lying so much as... fibbing," Dawn admitted lamely. 

"Ah... so you thought he was lying, but with good intentions?" 

"Exactly! And I know, hello, vampire, good intentions, not likely, but this is _Spike_. I know he wouldn't lie to me, but I know he wouldn't say anything to hurt me either. I thought he might have been going for the 'humour the kid, tell her something she wants to hear, so she won't have to know the awful truth' sort of thing. I had enough of that last year," Dawn said with a scowl, then her expression softened. "He never did that to me then, and I didn't think he'd start now, but you've seen how he is with me. He's so... protective... like he's afraid I might break or something." 

"Well, like you said, he is a vampire. He's immortal, and we aren't - to him, we're all pretty breakable." 

"I guess... anyway, I didn't know if he could be honest with me about this, not if he thought the answer wasn't something I wanted to hear. So I decided to ask you, to try and make sure." 

"Well, it's not like I was able to tell you much." 

"Maybe not," Dawn said with a small smile, "but it was enough. Now I know he was telling me the truth about the other stuff. Spike can only lie if he lies big - he's even worse at telling little lies than Buffy was, and that's saying something." Dawn's eyes shone. "And it's good to know that they weren't alone." 

Dawn hadn't specified who she meant, but she hardly needed to. 

"Yes," Tara said softly, "it is." 

As they climbed the steps to the house, Dawn turned to Tara. 

"Speaking of being alone, I just wanted to say thanks for making sure that I'm not. I don't know what I would've done without you and Willow." 

Tara gave her a quick hug. 

"You would've figured something out, and made it work," the witch said, smiling. "You're a Summers." 

An answering smile slowly spread across Dawn's face. 

"I am. Thanks Tara." 

They went into the house, and as Dawn went upstairs, Tara locked the door behind them. Wearily, she leaned against it until she heard the teenager's footsteps die away. Then, after slowly peeling herself from the door, she went into the kitchen to brew the calming tea her sleep had come to rely upon in the last few months. 

_I should be glad that grandma's stomach remedy worked, or chances are I'd have an ulcer by now, too..._

Tara hated dishonesty at the best of times, but being dishonest with people she cared about was the worst. Willow had tried to ease her conscience on the matter, pointing out that weren't actually lying to anyone - it was more like a strategic withholding of information - but it had been to no avail. They might have been doing it by omission rather than by commission, their intentions may have been good, but they were still lying - after a fashion, at least. And since of all the Scoobies, Tara spent the most time with Dawn, the blond witch was forced to it most often. _At least I'm good at it,_ she thought humourlessly, as she collected the herbs and put the water on to boil. _Living with Dad taught me that much._

As she waited for the kettle, her thoughts wandered over her long-ago talk with her grandmother, the conversation she had had with Dawn, and the spell the group was going to attempt. _It isn't the same, _she told herself._ Mama died, but she died naturally - there was never any question of where she was. She is dead, but she's not suffering - Buffy **is**. It's not like we can call her soul back from Hell without a vessel - and leaving her in an Orb of Thessulah, or just drifting in the ether for eternity isn't much of a step up from Hell. Bringing her back - **really** back - is the only way to rescue her._

Tara had stopped voicing her doubts to Willow. The redhead always had a sympathetic ear, but she had enough responsibility on her shoulders, and Tara didn't want to burden her love further. _Besides, she'd tell you that this is just coming from self-doubt again - and she'd probably be right. She has enough to worry about without having to hold your hand every time you feel insecure,_ she told herself firmly. _The spell is dangerous, but we're doing it for the right reason - to keep Buffy from suffering. We're not bringing her back for the sake of bringing her back - **that** would be wrong._

With that thought, the witch made her tea, and after letting it steep for a few minutes, she drank it down. Getting up from the kitchen table, she thoroughly rinsed out her mug in the sink, removing all trace of the herbs, then went upstairs to bed. 

_Maybe sleepless nights are just a trade-off you make when you try to do the right thing - because you have to work out what the right thing is, and you can't ever be sure you were right until you look back on things after they're over and done._

Buffy had had plenty of sleepless nights and for exactly those reasons, Tara knew - but in the end, the Slayer had almost always been right.__

_I just hope that we are too..._   
__


End file.
